A 
CRITICAL  FABLE 


r  -7 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE 


Dear  Sir  (or  Dear  Madam)  who  happen  to  glance  at  this 

TITL£-<PAg£ 

Printed  you'll  see  to  enhance  its  aesthetic  attraction, 
Pray  buy,  if  you're  able,  this  excellent  bargain: 

A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

The  book  may  be  read  in  the  light  of 

A  Segue/  to  the  "  FABLE  for  CRITICS" 

A  volume  unequal  (or  hitherto  so)  for  its  quips  and  digressions  on 

Cfjt  $0ets  of  tfje  Bap 

WITHOUT  UNDUE  PROFESSIONS,  I  WOULD  SAY  THAT  THIS  TREATISE 

IS  FULLY  AS  LIGHT  AS  THE  FORMER,  ITS  JUDGMENTS  AS 

CERTAINLY  RIGHT  AS  NEED  BE. 

A  HODGE-PODGE 

Delivered  primarily  in  the  hope  of  instilling  instruction 

so  airily  that  readers  may  see,  in  the  persons  on  view, 

a  peripatetic,  poetic  Who  'j  Who. 

An  Account  of  the  Times 

BY 
A  POKER  OF  FUN,  WITT  D.,  o.s.,  A.I. 


cooooooooooooo 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

Boston  and  New  York 
Published  September,  1922 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ22,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CAMBRIDGE  •  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


GENTLE  READER, 

THE  book  you're  about  to  peruse  has  only  one  object, 
which  is  to  amuse.  If,  as  over  its  pages  you  may  chance 
to  potter,  you  discover  it's  rather  more  pungent  and 
hotter  than  this  simple  pretension  might  lead  one  to 
think,  recollect,  if  you  please,  there's  a  devil  in  ink; 
and  a  critic  who  starts  without  any  intention  to  do 
more  than  recount,  will  find  his  apprehension  of  the 
poets  running  on  to  minutely-limned  pictures  of  the 
men  as  he  sees  them.  Neither  praises  nor  strictures 
were  in  my  design  for  I  tried  to  elude  them;  but  a  man, 
plus  his  writings,  must  always  include  them  inferen- 
tial ly,  even  if  nothing  be  stated.  As  the  picture  emerges, 
the  sitter  stands  rated. 

But  who  would  be  backward  when  others  have  done 
the  very  same  thing  in  a  search  of  pure  fun?  Sixty-odd 
years  ago,  a  volume  appeared  called  "A  Fable  for 
Critics,"  wherein  were  ensphered  eighteen  authors  of 
merit.  The  poet  who  selected  them  dared  many  sly 
prods  just  because  he  respected  them.  What  a  serious 
analysis  may  fail  to  discover  is  often  revealed  to  a  fun- 
loving  lover. 

In  the  volume  before  you,  you  will  find  twenty-one 
modern  poets  popped  off  'twixt  a  laugh  and  a  pun.  I 
have  spared  them  no  squib  and  no  palm,  what  I  give  is 
a  cursory  view  of  them  run  through  a  sieve.  As  I  rattle 


vi  PREFACE 

my  poets  about  faster  and  faster,  each  man  shakes 
more  certainly  into  a  master;  to  my  thinking,  at  least, 
for  their  rich  native  flavour  gives  them  all  so  abundant 
a  claim  on  my  favoifr  that  I'm  willing  to  leave  them 
for  sixty-odd  years  and  let  my  great-grandchildren 
foot  the  arrears. 

With  the  poets  I've  not  noticed,  there's  a  chance 
for  a  sequel,  and  some  other  critic  who  thinks  himself 
equal  to  the  writing  may  build  on  my  scaffolding  gratis; 
and  for  readers,  I  really  cannot  calculate  his  —  with 
his  hundreds  of  victims  he'll  sell  each  edition  as  fast 
as  it's  printed  —  I'm  no  mathematician.  Take  the 
Poetry  Society's  roster  of  members,  brush  away  all  the 
laymen  and  leave  just  the  embers  which  spark  into 
verse  now  and  then ;  for  equations,  let  A.  equal  the  poet 
and  B.  his  relations;  then  his  wife  and  her  friends  with 
their  "circles"  and  "clubs";  and  the  cultural  ladies, 
impervious  to  snubs,  who  get  out  long  programmes  of 
up-to-date  readings  which  are  called  "very  helpful" 
in  the  printed  proceedings  of  some  Woman's  Club's 
"most  remarkable  year"  (one  wonders  sometimes 
what  the  poor  creatures  hear,  for  of  course  they  don't 
read  now  books  are  so  dear),  and  some  one's  geometry 's 
needed,  it's  clear,  to  post  up  the  total.  I'll  not  volun- 
teer for  a  task  which  requires  an  expert  cashier.  For 
the  ladies  I've  mentioned,  who  take  what  they're  told 
as  immaculate  gospel  in  letters  of  gold,  and  rather  than 
buy  prefer  to  be  sold,  they'll  be  moved,  I  believe,  to 
purchase  his  anthology  which,  like  Poe,  he  might  call 
"A  Hand-Book  of  Conchology."  Since  I've  got  the 


PREFACE  vii 

pearls,  he  must  e'en  take  the  shells,  but  the  public  at 
large  has  no  knowledge  of  sells  —  see  them  gape  at  the 
lies  which  every  quack  tells  —  and,  as  I  said  before,  on 
the  question  of  vails,  if  I  collar  the  kudos,  why  he'll 
gorge  the  sales. 

For  I  really  don't  think  there's  one  person  in  ten 
who  can  tell  the  first-class  from  the  second-class  men. 
If  I've  twenty-one  poets  and  he  sixty-four,  how  many 
will  stop  to  consider  that  more  of  the  very  same  thing 
means  a  well-watered  article?  In  my  book,  you'll  per- 
ceive, there  is  n't  a  particle  of  stuffing  or  layers  of  lath 
to  increase  the  absolute  weight  of  my  poets,  piece  by 
piece.  Each  is  wrapped  in  tin-foil  and  set  round  the 
core  of  a  box  that  I've  softened  with  excelsior  which, 
as  every  one  knows,  is  the  lightest  of  packing  and  ex- 
ceedingly cheap;  so,  if  money  be  lacking,  you  have 
only  to  take  a  few  useless  trees,  such  as  laurel,  or  wil- 
low, or  bay,  and  with  these  make  a  bundle  of  shavings 
as  thick  as  you  please.  The  foil,  I  admit,  is  a  good  deal 
more  trouble.  To  wrap  poets  round  with  tin  is  like 
hoisting  a  bubble  with  grapples  and  rope.  Do  you 
notice  my  drift?  You  can't  pull  at  your  bubbles  or 
teach  your  poets  thrift.  Having  done  what  you  can  to 
arrange  them  precisely  —  and,  considering  their  angles, 
this  is  hard  to  do  nicely  —  you  should  view  them  a  mo- 
ment to  be  sure  that  no  jutting  or  over-sized  head  will 
prevent  the  box  shutting;  then,  just  at  the  last,  right 
under  the  cover,  to  off -set  any  jars,  put  a  thick  wad  of 
clover.  A  few  little  holes  may  be  left  here  and  there 
for  the  egress  of  words  and  the  ingress  of  air,  and  your 


viii  PREFACE 

poets  are  quite  ready  for  nailing  and  mailing.  If  you  're 
sure  of  your  press,  the  rest  is  plain  sailing. 

Having  read  me  so  far,  you  will  ask,  I  am  certain,  for 
just  a  stray  peep  round  the  edge  of  the  curtain  I  have 
carefully  hung  up  between  us,  but  this  is,  Gentle 
Reader,  the  one  of  all  my  prejudices  I  would  not  depart 
from  by  even  a  tittle.  Suppose,  for  a  moment,  the  au- 
thor's a  little  just-out-of-the-egg  sort  of  fellow  —  why 
then,  would  you  care  half  a  jot  what  fell  from  his  pen? 
Supposing,  for  naturally  you  must  suppose  at  least 
something  or  other,  he's  (under  the  rose)  a  personage 
proper,  whose  judgments  are  wont  to  sway  many 
opinions,  would  you  dare  to  confront  so  seasoned  a  rea- 
soning with  your  own  reflections? 

Where's  the  fun  of  a  book  if  you  can't  take  objec- 
tions to  this  and  to  that,  call  the  author  a  zany,  and  in 
doing  so  prove  to  yourself  what  a  brainy  person  you 
are,  with  a  tribe  of  convictions  which  only  malicious 
folk  speak  of  as  fictions? 

Have  I  laboured  my  point?  You'll  enjoy  me  the 
more  if  you  hazard  a  guess  between  every  score  or  so 
lines.  Why,  it's  endless;  you'll  see  in  a  twinkling  how 
exciting  a  book  can  be  when  you've  no  inkling  as  to 
who,  or  to  why,  or  to  whether,  or  what,  the  author  may 
be.  If  it  fall  to  your  lot  to  unmask  him,  how  deeply 
you  '11  relish  the  jest.  No,  Kind  Reader,  I  cannot  fulfil 
your  request. 

Think  again  of  my  poets,  each  one  will  be  lying  in 
wait  with  some  sharp,  eager  weapon.  For  dying  — 
why,  all  in  good  time,  but  not  plunked  on  the  head  by  a 


PREFACE  ix 

furious  poet  who's  disliked  what  I  said.  They're  all 
sure  to  dislike  the  particular  parts  which  deal  with 
their  own  books,  own  heads,  and  own  hearts.  All  poets 
are  the  same  in  one  singular  trait :  whatever  is  said  of 
them,  that  thing  they  hate.  As  I  wish  to  enjoy  a  life  of 
some  quiet,  I  refuse  to  be  pestered  by  poets  on  the  riot. 
Having  opened  my  heart,  I  must  seek  to  preserve  it 
from  every  result,  even  though  it  deserve  it. 

Then,  like  most  other  writers,  I've  a  scant  equa- 
nimity and  scarcely  can  hope  to  retain  my  sublimity,  in 
spite  of  all  efforts  to  show  magnanimity,  if  any  one 
penetrates  my  anonymity. 

One  word  more,  and  I'm  silent  in  propria  persona: 
If  you,  who  are  reading,  should  chance  to  be  owner  of 
the  volume  in  hand  and  a  poet  comes  to  call,  fling  it 
into  the  fire  or  over  the  wall,  put  it  into  your  work- 
basket,  under  your  seat;  but,  whatever  you  do,  don't 
permit  him  to  see  it. 

With  which  parting  remark,  I  close  my  introduction 
and  leave  you  the  book  without  farther  obstruction, 
only  wishing  you  joy  of  my  modest  production. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

THERE  are  few  things  so  futile,  and  few  so  amusing, 
As  a  peaceful  and  purposeless  sort  of  perusing 
Of  old  random  jottings  set  down  in  a  blank-book 
You've  unearthed  from  a  drawer  as  you  looked  for 

your  bank-book, 

Or  a  knife,  or  a  paper  of  pins,  or  some  string. 
The  truth  is,  of  course,  you'd  forgotten  the  thing, 
And  all  those  most  vitally  important  matters 
You'd  preserved  in  its  pages,  just  so  many  spatters 
The  wheel  of  your  life  kicked  up  in  its  going 
Now  hard  as  caked  clay  which  nothing  can  grow  in. 
You  raved  over  Browning,  you  discovered  Euripides, 
You  devoured  all  volumes  from  which  you  could  snip 

idees 

(No  one  need  be  surprised  if  I  use  the  vernacular 
Whenever  it  fits  with  my  text.  It's  spectacular. 
And  what  smacks  of  the  soil  is  always  tentacular.)  — 
Astronomy,  botany,  palaeontology  — 
At  least  you  acquired  their  strange  phraseology 
And  sprinkled  it  over  your  pages  in  splendid 
Profusion  because  that  was  what  learned  men  did. 
Having  one  day  observed  daffodils  in  a  breeze, 
You  remarked  as  a  brand  new  impression  that  these 
Were  beautiful  objects;  you  filled  quite  two  pages 
With  extracts  from  all  those  esteemed  personages 


2  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Whose  sayings  are  found  to  their  last  adumbrations 
In  any  respectable  book  of  quotations. 
You  heard  "Pelleas"  and  returned  in  a  stutter 
Of  rainbows,  and  bomb-shells,  and  thin  bread  and  but- 
ter; 

And  once  every  twenty  odd  entries  or  so 
You  recorded  a  fact  it  was  worth  while  to  know. 
At  least  that  was  my  blank-book,  but  one  of  the 

"odds" 

Gave  my  memory  two  or  three  violent  prods. 
All  it  said  was,  "A  gentleman  taking  a  walk 
Joined  me,  and  we  had  a  most  interesting  talk." 
We  certainly  did,  that  day  is  as  clear 
As   though   the  whole  circumstance   happened    this 

year. 

But  when  it  did  happen  I  really  can't  say, 
The  note  is  undated,  except  it  says  "May." 
Put  it,  then,  when  you  please,  whether  last  year  or  next 
Doesn't  matter  a  rap,  and  I  shall  not  be  vext 
If  you  think  I  just  dreamt  it,  it  swings  in  my  mind 
Without  root  or  grapple,  a  silvery  kind 
Of  antique  recollection,  that's  all  I  can  say. 
The  sun  shone  —  I  remember  the  scattering  way 
It  shot  over  the  water.  I  stood  by  the  river. 
The  plane-trees  were  just  leaving  out,  and  a  shiver 
Of  sunshine  and  shadow  twitched  over  the  grass. 
I  was  poking  at  something  which  glittered  like  glass 
With  my  stick  when  he  joined  me  and  stopped,  and 

his  stick 
Helped  mine  to  dig  up  a  long  bottle-neck,  thick, 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  3 

Brown,  and  unctuous  with  memories  of  cool  yellow  wine 
From  some  pre-bellum  vineyard  on  the  banks  of  the 

Rhine: 

"Berncastler  Doctor/'  perhaps,  or  "Riidesheimer," 
"Liebfraumilch" —  could  nomenclature  ere  be  sub- 

limer? 

Our  dear  cousins  German  are  so  deftly  romantic! 
Where  else  in  the  world  could  you  meet  such  an  antic 
Idea,  such  a  sentiment  oily  to  dripping?     . 
The  pot-bellied  humbugs  deserved  a  good  whipping, 
With  their  hands  dropping  blood  and   their  noses 

a-sniffle 
At  some  beautiful  thought  which  burns  down  to  mere 

piffle. 

As  I  rubbed  off  the  dirt  (with  my  handkerchief  mainly) 
I  may  have  said  this,  for  he  answered  profanely, 
"  But  their  wine  was  damned  good ! "  I  dispensed  from 

replying, 

His  remark  held  a  truth  I  was  far  from  denying. 
The  gentleman  seemed  not  to  notice  my  silence. 
" Could  you  tell  me,"  said  he,  "if  that  place  a  short 

mile  hence 

Is  really  Mt.  Auburn?1'  I  said  that  it  was, 
And  went  on  to  observe  I  had  never  had  cause 
To  enter  its  precincts.  "Why  should  you?"  he  said. 
"The  living  have  nothing  to  say  to  the  dead. 
The  fact  is  entirely  the  other  way  round, 
The  dead  do  the  speaking,  the  living  are  wound 
In  the  coil  of  their  words."   Here  I  greatly  demurred. 
His  expression  provoked  me  to  utter  absurd 


4  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Refutations.  "In  America,"  I  began,  with  bombast  — 
"Tut!  Tut!"  the  old  gentleman  smiled,  "not  so  fast. 
Fold  your  wings,  young  spread-eagle,  I  merely  have 

stated 

That  the  worth  of  the  living  is  much  over-rated. 
I  was  young  once  myself  some  few  decades  ago, 
And  I  lived  hereabouts,  so  I  really  should  know. 
This  parkway,  for  instance,  is  simply  man's  cheating 
Himself  to  believe  he  is  once  more  repeating 
A  loveliness  ruthlessly  uptorn  and  lost. 
Those  motor-horns,  now,  do  you  really  dare  boast 
That  they  please  you  as  marsh -larks'  and  bobolinks' 

songs  would? 

That  shaven  grass  shore,  is  it  really  so  good 
As  the  meadows  which  used  to  be  here,  and  these  plane- 
trees, 

Are  they  half  as  delightful  as  those  weather-vane  trees, 
The  poplars?    I  grant  you  they're  quaint,  and  can 

please 

Like  an  old  gouache  picture  of  some  Genevese 
Lake-bordering  highway;  but  it  is  just  these 
Trans- Atlantic  urbanities  which  crowd  out  the  flavour, 
The  old  native  lushness  and  running-wild  savour, 
Of  mulleins,  and  choke-cherries  in  a  confusion 
So  dire  that  only  small  boys  dared  intrusion ; 
Beyond,  where  there  certainly  wasn't  a  shore, 
Just  tufted  marsh  grass  for  an  acre  or  more 
Treading  shiftily  into  the  river  and  drowned 
When  the  high  Spring  tides  turned  inconveniently 
round, 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  5 

And  on  the  tall  grass-sprays,  as  likely  as  not, 
Red-winged  blackbirds,  a  score  of  them,  all  in  one  spot. 
This  place  had  the  taste  which  a  boy  feels  who  grapples 
With  the  season's  first  puckery,  bitter-green  apples. 
Regardless  of  consequence,  he  devours  and  crams  on. 
Does  maturity  get  the  same  joy  from  a  damson? 
But  we,  with  our  marshes,  were' more  certainly  urban 
Than  you  with  your  brummagem,  gilded  suburban, 
Which  you  wear  like  a  hired  theatrical  turban. 
You  move  and  you  act  like  folk  in  a  play 
All  carefully  drilled  to  walk  the  same  way. 
Just  look  at  this  bottle,  we  were  free  in  my  time, 
But  I  think  you  are  free  of  nothing  but  rhyme." 
Now  here  was  a  thing  which  was  not  to  be  stood, 
Poking  fun  at  a  soul  just  escaped  from  the  wood 
Like  a  leaf  freshly  burst  from  the  bark  of  its  twig. 
"At  least,"  I  said  hotly,  "we  are  not  a  mere  sprig 
From  an  overseas'  bush,  and  we  don't  care  a  fig 
For  a  dozen  dead  worthies  of  classic  humdrum, 
And  each  one  no  bigger  than  Hop-o'-my-thumb 
To  our  eyes.  Why,  the  curse  of  their  damned  rhetoric 
Hangs  over  our  writers  like  a  school-master's  stick." 
Here  I  caught  a  few  words  like  "the  dead  and  the 

quick." 

I  admit  I  was  stung  by  his  imperturbability 
And  the  hint  in  his  eyes  of  suppressed  risibility. 
1 '  We  are  breaking  away . . ! '  Here  he  tossed  up  the  bottle, 
Or  the  poor  jagged  neck  which  was  left  of  the  hot  Hell 
Container,  as  I  think  Mr.  Volstead  might  say. 
How  thankful  I  am  I  preceded  his  day 


6  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

And  remember  the  lovely,  suave  lines  of  these  flasks. 

To  piece  them  together  will  be  one  of  the  tasks 

Of  thirty-third  century  museum  curators, 

Subsidized  and  applauded  by  keen  legislators. 

It  flashed  in  the  sun  for  an  instant  or  two, 

And  we  watched  it  in  silence  as  men  always  do 

Things  that  soar,  then  it  turned  and  fell  in  chaotic 

Uprisings  of  spray  from  a  sudden  aquatic 

Suppression  beneath  the  waves  of  the  Charles. 

"  Yet  that,  like  so  much,  is  but  one  of  the  snarls," 

He  dusted  his  fingers.   "And  if  a  man  flings 

His  tangles  in  air,  there  are  so  many  strings 

To  a  single  cat's-cradle  of  impulse,  who  knows 

When  you  pull  at  one  end  where  the  other  end  goes. 

We  were  worthy,  respectable,  humdrum,  quite  so, 

An  admirable  portrait  of  one  Edgar  Poe." 

"Oh,  Poe  was  a  bird  of  a  different  feather, 

We  always  rank  him  and  Walt  Whitman  together." 

"You  do?"  The  old  gentleman  tugged  at  his  whisker. 

"  I  could  scarcely  myself  have  imagined  a  brisker 

Sarcasm  than  that  to  set  down  in  my  '  Fable. ' 

I  did  what  I  could,  but  I  scarcely  was  able 

To  throw  leaves  of  grass  to  Poe's  raven  as  sops 

For  his  Cerberus  master,  who  would  be  mad  as  hops 

At  a  hint  of  your  excellent  juxtaposition, 

Since  that  book  was  not  yet  in  its  first  slim  edition. 

You   remember   I   said   that    Poe    was   three  parts 

genius. 

As  to  Whitman,  can  you  think  of  an  action  more  hei- 
nous 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  7 

Than  to  write  the  same  book  every  two  or  three  years? 
It's  enough  to  reduce  any  author  to  tears 
At  the  thought  of  this  crime  to  the  writing  fraternity. 
A  monstrous,  continual,  delaying  paternity. 
But  I  wax  somewhat  hot,  let's  have  done  with  the  fel- 
lows. 

Your  strange  estimation  has  made  me  quite  jealous 
For  those  of  my  time  whose  secure  reputations 
Gave  us  no  concern.  These  are  trifling  vexations,, 
But  they  itch  my  esteem.   Is  there  really  not  one 
You  sincerely  admire?"   "Yes,  Miss  Dickinson," 
I  hastily  answered.  At  this  he  stopped  dead 
In  his  walk  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  pop  from  his  head. 
"What,"  he  thundered,  "that  prim  and  perverse  little 

person 

Without  an  idea  you  could  hang  up  a  verse  on ! 
Wentworth  Higginson  did  what  he  could,  his  tuition 
Was  ardent,  unwearied,  but  bore  no  fruition. 
You  amaze  me,  young  man,  where  are  Longfellow, 

Lowell, 

With  Whittier,  Bryant,  and  Holmes?  Do  you  know  well 
The  works  of  these  men?  What  of  Washington  Irving, 
And  Emerson  and  Hawthorne,  are  they  not  deserving 
A  tithe  of  your  upstart,  unfledged  admiration? 
In  the  name  of  the  Furies,  what's  come  to  the  nation!" 
Here  I  thought  it  was  prudent  to  say,  as  to  prose 
I  was  perfectly  willing  to  hand  him  the  rose. 
But  I  could  not  admit  that  our  poets  were  so  backward. 
I  thought,  if  he  knew  them,  he'd  see  they'd  a  knack 
would 


8  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Command  his  respect.   For  the  matter  of  liking, 

The  men  he  had  mentioned  might  be  each  a  Viking, 

While  we,  very  probably,  were  merely  the  skippers 

Of  some  rather  lively  and  smartish  tea-clippers;   , 

Or,  to  put  it  in  terms  somewhat  more  up  to  date, 

Our  steamers  and  aeroplanes  might  be  first-rate 

As  carriers  for  a  particular  freight. 

Each  time  for  its  heroes,  and  he  must  excuse 

The  terms  I  employed,  I'd  not  meant  to  abuse 

Our  forerunners,  but  only  to  speak  of  a  preference  — 

Anno  Domini  merely.   So  classic  a  reference 

Should  cool  him,  I  thought.  Here  I  went  on  to  better  a 

Most  happy  allusion,  and  continued  —  et  c&tera. 

I  will  not  repeat  all  the  soothing  remarks 

With  which  I  endeavoured  to  smother  the  sparks 

Of  his  anger.  Suffice  it  to  say  I  succeeded 

In  clouding  the  issue  of  what  had  preceded. 

I  enjoyed  it  myself  and  I  almost  think  he  did. 

I  admit  there  was  something  a  trifle  pragmatical 

In  my  method,  but  who  wants  the  truth  mathematical? 

It  sours  good  talk  as  thunder  does  cream. 

I  ignore,  for  the  nonce,  a  disquieting  gleam 

In  his  eye.  "  But  your  critics,"  he  answered  demurely, 

"For  your  poets,  by-and-by;  with  your  critics  you 

surely 

Surpass  what  .we  did.    I  was  not  fond  of  critics; 
If  I  rightly  remember,  I  gave  them  some  sly  ticks. 
I  called  them,  I  think,  poor  broken-kneed  hacks." 
"We've  advanced,"  I  replied,  "to  the  office  boot- 
blacks. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  9 

We  are  quite  democratic,  and  the  newspapers  think 
One  man  is  as  good  as  another  in  ink. 
The  fluid  that's  paid  for  at  so  much  a  sprinkling 
Is  a  guaranteed  product,  quite  free  of  all  inkling 
That  standardized   morals,   and   standardized  criti- 
cisms, 

And  a  standardized  series  of  cut-and-dried  witticisms, 
Are  poor  stuff  to  purvey  as  a  full  reading  ration, 
Though  they  suit  to  a  T  the  views  of  a  nation 
Which  fears  nothing  so  much  as  a  personal  equation. 
Subscribers  demand  that  their  thoughts  be  retailed  to 

them 
So  often  and  plenteously  that  they  become  nailed  to 

them 
And  when  travelling  are  lost  if  their  journal's  not  mailed 

to  them. 

By  this  safe  and  sane  rule  our  newspapers  get  on 
Without  any  gambling,  since  there's  nothing  to  bet  on. 
Of  course  I  refer  to  things  of  import 
Such  as  stock-exchange  news,  murders,  fashions,  and 

sport, 

With  a  smattering  of  politics,  garbled  to  fit 
Editorial  policy;  if  they  admit 
Puerilities  like  music  and  art,  these  are  extras 
Put  in  to  augment,  by  means  of  a  dexterous 
Metropolitan  appearance,  their  own  circulation, 
For  a  paper's  first  duty  is  self-preservation. 
If  they  will  run  book  columns,  why  some  one  must 

feed  them,    , 
And,  after  all,  few  take  the  trouble  to  read  them. 


io  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

With  a  pastepot  and  scissors  to  cut  up  his  betters 
And  any  young  numskull  is  equal  to  letters. 
He  scans  what  the  publisher  says  on  the  jacket, 
Then  the  first  paragraph  and  the  last,  and  the  packet 
Goes  off  to  the  second-hand  book-shop,  the  bunch 
Polished  off  in  the  minutes  he's  waiting  for  lunch. 
I  believe  there's  no  record  of  any  one  feeling 
As  he  pockets  his  pay  that  he  may  have  been  stealing. 
The  thing  would  be  murder,  but  that  time  has  gone  by 
When  an  author  can  be  made  or  marred  by  such  fry. 
Some  good  paper  is  spoiled,  that's  the  long  and  the 

short  of  it." 
Here  I  watched  the  old  gentleman  to  see  what  he 

thought  of  it. 
"  These  reviews  which  you  speak  of  have  one  great 

advantage," 

He  remarked,  "they  are  brief.  In  our  less  petulant  age 
They  had  not  that  merit.   But  I  see  we  agree 
On  essentials.  Yet  we  had  a  very  few  men 
Who  wielded  a  passably  powerful  pen." 
"And  one  woman,"  I  slyly  put  in.  He  grimaced. 
"That's  the  second  you've  dug  up  and  greatly  dis- 
placed. 

Since  you  criticize  thus,  do  I  err  if  I  doubt 
Whether  you  are  the  boot-black  on  his  afternoon  out?" 
Fairly  touched  and  I  owned  it,  and  let  Margaret  Fuller 
Slide  softly  to  limbo.   'Twas  unmanly  to  rule  her 
Out  of  count  in  this  way,  but  the  fish  I  must  fry 
Required  considerable  diplomacy 
To  keep  in  the  pan  and  not  drop  in  the  fire. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  II 

'Twas  an  expert  affair,  and  might  shortly  require 
I  knew  not  what  effort  to  induce  him  to  grant 
That  whatever  we  are  is  worth  more  than  we  aren't. 
So  I  instantly  seized  on  his  "very  few  men"    - 
And  assured  him  that  we  also,  now  and  again, 
Found  a  youth  who  was  willing  to  write  good  re- 
views 

While  learning  to  tickle  the  publishers'  views 
And  make  them  believe  he  was  worth  while  to  back. 
"The  thing  after  all  is  a  question  of  knack, 
Ten  to  one  if  you  have  it  you  turn  out  a  quack; 
If  you  don't,  and  win  through,  you've  arrived  with- 
out doubt, 
But  the  luck's  on  your  side  if  you're  not  quite  wora 

out." 
"Good  old  world,"  he  remarked,  as  he  prodded  the 

ground 

With  the  point  of  his  cane,  "  I  observe  it  goes  round 
In  the  same  soothing,  punctual  way.  This  pastiche 
Of  the  quite  unfamiliar  is  merely  a  bleach, 
A  veneer,  acid-bitten,  on  a  colour  we  knew. 
By  the  way,  when  it's  finished,  who  reads  your  re- 
view?" 

"The  fellow  who  wrote  it,  on  all  those  occasions 
When  his  fine  self-esteem  has  received  some  abra- 
sions. 

Then  the  fellow  who's  written  about  cons  the  thing 
Over  several  times  in  a  day  till  the  sting 
Of  its  strictures  becomes  just  the  usual  pedantic 
Outpouring,  and  its  granules  of  praise  grow  gigantic. 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


12  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Once  acquire  this  excellent  trick  for  benumbing 
What  you  don't  want  to  hear  by  an  extra  loud  strum- 
ming " 

On  the  things  which  you  do  and  you  fast  are  becoming 
A  real  going  author.  Then  there  are  the  gentry 
Who  must  read  reviews  to  fill  out  an  entry 
In  next  week's  advertisement;  and  others  peruse 
The  paper  with  care  to  note  down  its  abuse 
Of  their  dear  brother  writer,  and  suck  up  each  injurious 
Phrase  to  retail  with  a  finely  luxurious 
Hypocritical  pretense  of  its  being  unsuitable, 
While  all  the  time  showing  it  quite  irrefutable. 
Then  there  are  the  sisters,  and  cousins,  and  aunts 
Of  the  writer  and  wrote  about;  some  sycophants 
Who  pry  into  favour  by  announcing  they've  read  it, 
And  praise  or  deride  to  heighten  their  credit 
With  the  interested  person.  There  are  others  who  edit 
Gossip  columns,  and  who  must  go  through  at  a  dead- 
heat  **. 
The  news  of  the  day  for  the  spicy  tid-bits 
And  who  greatly  prefer  the  more  virulent  hits. 
By  the  time  we  are  through,  a  fairly  large  public 
Has  skimmed  through  the  paper."   He  gave  a  quick 

flick 

To  a  stone  which  arose  with  a  circular  twist 
And  plopped  into  the  river.   "But  if  I  insist 
On  your  people  of  parts?"  "Oh,  they  do  not  exist/' 
I  assured  him,  "or  only  as  sparsely  as  daisies 
In  city  back-yards.  And  if  one  of  them  raises 
His  voice  it  is  drowned  in  the  whirligig  hazes 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  13 

Of  mob  murmurings.   If  these  men  hold  the  key 
To  the  spacious  demesne  known  as  posterity 
The  gate  must  have  shrunk  to  a  postern,  I  think. 
Every  one  worth  his  salt  glues  his  eye  to  the  chink 
'Twixt  the  frame  and  the  door,  but  it's  long  to  keep 

looking 

With  never  a  chance  to  get  even  a  hook  in 
And  pull  open  a  door  where  it's  'Skeletons  Only.' 
A  notice  designed  to  make  any  one  lonely. 
It  stares  over  the  gate  in  huge  letters  of  red: 
'No  person  admitted  until  he  is  dead.' 
Small  wonder  if  some  of  them  cannot  hold  out. 
As  they  dwindle  away,  the  watchers,  no  doubt, 
Feel  a  sort  of  cold  envy  creep  through  their  contempt. 
Then  perhaps  the  door  opens  and  one  is  exempt, 
Gone  over  to  dust  and  to  fame.  As  it  slams, 
The  requiem  fraternal,  a  chorus  of  'Damns!' 
Cracks  the  silence  a  moment.   More  still  break  away, 
But  the  shrivelled  remainder  waits  each  one  his  day. 
It  takes  marvellous  force  and  persistence  to  tarry  on 
When  your  own  special  corpse  may  be  counted  as  car- 
rion 

And  left  where  it  lies  to  await  decomposing 
While  that  devilish  door  shows  no  sign  of  unclosing. 
These  custodians  of  keys  are  ill  to  rely  on 
As  the  last  Day  of  Judgment  to  the  followers  of  Zion. 
There  are  folk  who  dress  up  in  the  very  same  guise 
And  boast  of  a  power  that's  nothing  but  lies. 
They  shout  from  their  chosen,  particular  steeple 
Of  some  weekly  review:  'We  are  surely  the  people! 


I4  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

We  know  what  posterity  wants,  for  we  know 

What  other  posterities  have  wanted,  and  so 

We  affirm  confidently  the  true  cut  and  fashion 

Which  the  future  will  certainly  dote  on  with  passion. 

There  is  no  need  at  all  of  making  a  fuss 

For  all  generations  are  exactly  like  us. 

We  represent  that  which  is  known  as  the  Vox 

Populi,  species  Intelligentsia,  or  Cocks 

Of  the  Walk  on  the  Dunghill  of  High  Erudition, 

Referred  to  more  elegantly  as  Fields  Elysian. ' 

The  matter  of  clocks  may  be  readily  dropped, 

Every  Ph.D.  knows  that  they  long  ago  stopped. 

What  are  colleges  for  with  their  dignified  massiveness 

But  just  to  reduce  all  time-pieces  to  passiveness." 

*  'The  picture  you  draw  does  not  greatly  attract 

One  who  seeks  for  the  absolute  even  in  fact. 

That  fanciful  bit  you  put  in  about  clocks 

Borders  rather  too  smartly  upon  paradox. 

We  had  a  few  poets,  and  we  had  a  few  colleges, 

And  something  like  half  of  your  bundle  of  knowledges. 

We  delivered  our  lectures  and  wrote  our  lampoons, 

And  I  venture  to  say  that  the  fire-balloons 

Of  our  verse  made  as  lively  a  sputter  as  yours. 

If  things  are  so  changed,  what,  pray,  is  the  cause?" 

I  groaned.   Poor  old  gentleman,  should  I  be  tempted 

To  tell  him  the  fault  was  that  he  had  preempted, 

He  and  the  others,  the  country's  small  stock 

Of  imagination?  The  real  stumbling-block 

Was  the  way  they  stood  up  like  Blake's  angels,  a  chorus 

Of  geniuses  over  our  heads,  no  more  porous 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  15 

Than  so  much  stretched  silk;  rain,  sun,  and  the  stellar 
Effulgences  balked  by  our  national  umbrella 
Of  perished  celebrities.  To  mention  a  trifling 
Fact,  underneath  them  the  air's  somewhat  stifling. 
Youthful  lungs  need  ozone  and,  considering  the  tent, 
No  man  can  be  blamed  if  he  punches  a  rent 
With  his  fist  in  the  stiff,  silken  web  if  he  can. 
A  feat,  I  assured  him,  more  horrible  than 
Cataclysmic  tide-waters  or  Vesuvian 
Explosions  to  all  those  quaint,  straightly-laced  folk 
Who  allow  a  man  only  the  freedom  to  choke. 
"We  may  buckle  the  winds  and  rip  open  the  sea, 
But  we  mayn't  poke  a  finger  at  authority." 
"A  nursery  game,"  the  old  man  spoke  benignly, 
"To  all  school-boys,  convention's  a  matter  divinely 
Ordained,  and  the  youngster  who  feels  himself  bold 

enough 
To  step  out  of  the  ring  will  soon  find  himself  cold 

enough. 

To  be  chips  from  a  hardened  old  tree  may  be  crippling, 
But  it's  nothing  compared  to  the  lot  of  the  stripling. 
For  the  sake  of  the  argument,  let  us  agree 
That  we  were  the  last  surge  of  life  which  the  tree 
Could  produce,  that  our  heart- wood  was  long  ago  rotted, 
Our  sap-wood  decaying,  and  all  our  roots  spotted 
With  fungus ;  the  Spring  of  our  flourishing  over, 
The  first  Winter  storm  would  most  likely  have  rove  a 
Great  cleft  through  the  trunk,  and  the  next  year's  out- 
leaving 
Would  unbalance  the  whole  without  hope  of  retrieving. 


16  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

The  gentlest  of  breezes  would  then  send  it  crashing. 
Good  luck  to  the  striplings  if  they  escape  smashing. 
When  an  oak,  having  lasted  its  time,  is  once  thrown, 
What  is  left  are  the  acorns  it  cast,  and  these  grown  • 
Are  the  forest  of  saplings  in  which  it  lies  prone. 
But  'twould  be  a  dull  acorn  who  should  dare  to  declare 
It  was  sprung  only  from  earth's  connection  with  air, 
The  miraculous  birth  of  a  marvellous  rut. 
Such  an  acorn  indeed  would  be  a  poor  nut." 
He  quickened  his  steps  and  I  followed  along, 
Listening  partly  to  him,  and  partly  to  the  song 
Of  the  little  light  leaves  in  the  plane-trees.   Said  he, 
Stopping  short  quite  abruptly,  "I  think  it  should  be 
Somewhere  about  here  that  a  house  I  once  knew 
Used  to  stand.   It  was  not  much  to  look  at,  'tis  true, 
But  its  elms  were  superb  and  it  had  a  fine  view 
Of  the  river.   A  friend  of  mine  owned  it,  indeed 
He  was  born  here  and  loved  every  tree,  every  weed. 
Circumstance  loosed  his  moorings,  but  he  came  back  to 

die, 

To  envisage  the  past  with  a  chill,  older  eye, 
And  dwelt  a  few  years  with  the  bitter-sweet  ghosts 
Of  his  earlier  dreams,  with  the  shadowless  hosts 
Of  the  things  he  had  never  brought  farther  than  plan- 
ning. 

How  often  he  wished  there  were  some  way  of  spanning 
The  past  and  the  present,  to  go  back  again 
And  drink  to  the  dregs  the  austere  cup  of  pain. 
Instead,  he  allowed  the  nepenthe  of  change 
To  smother  that  loneliness  by  which  the  range 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  17 

Of  his  soul   might  have  reached   to  some  highest 

achievement 

Through  the  vision  won  out  of  a  grievous  bereavement. 
He'd  a  wit  and  a  fancy,  a  hint  of  some  deepness, 
An  excellent  humour  quite  unmarred  by  cheapness, 
But  somehow  his  work  never  got  beyond  soundings. 
I  wonder  sometimes  if  it  was  his  surroundings 
Or  the  fact  that  he  fled  them.  With  a  grim  taciturnity, 
He  admitted  no  masterpiece  owed  its  paternity 
To  him.  Now  they've  pulled  down  his  house,  I  suppose. 
Thistles  spring  up  and  die,  and  the  thistledown  goes 
Anywhere  the  wind  blows  it."  "Wait,"  I  said,  "if  you 

mean 

James  Lowell's  house,  'Elmwood,'  you  can  see  it  be- 
tween 
That  brick  porch  and  that  window,  and  those  are  its 

chimneys. 

The  grounds  are  cut  up  and  built  over,  their  trimness 
Is  due  to  that  cluster  of  very  new  houses. 
In  its  rather  bedraggled  condition,  it  rouses 
My  ire  each  time  I  come  anywhere  near  it. 
It  deserved  better  treatment."  "I  fear  it!  I  fear  it!" 
He  murmured.  "Was  it  lack  of  success,  or  those  years 
I  spent  in  escaping  the  tonic  arrears 
Of  a  grief  not  lived  through.  I  cannot  bear  more." 
He  turned  and  walked  rapidly  down  to  the  shore 
Of  the  river  and  seated  himself  on  the  bank. 
Many  minutes  went  by,  then  he  asked  me  point-blank 
Who  were  the  young  poets  of  the  day.  "Since  my  mood 
Will  admit  no  more  sorrowful  past,  be  so  good 


18  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

As  to  marshal  your  forces,  I  shall  find  it  quite  pleasant 

To  stroll  for  a  little  with  you  in  the  present. 

So  bring  them  out,  lock,  stock,  and  barrel,  the  whole 

of  them, 

I'm  really  most  anxious  to  get  a  good  toll  of  them. 
Recount  me  their  merits,  their  foibles  and  absurdities, 
Such  a  tale  is  too  saccharine  without  some  acerbities." 
His  gesture  of  challenge  was  so  debonnaire 
I  could  only  accept  with  as  devil-may-care 
A  grace  as  I  could.   But  our  Ostrogothic 
Modern  manners,  I  fear,  made  me  seem  sans-culottic, 
I  know  that  I  felt  supremely  idiotic. 
Still  "out  of  the  mouths  of  the  babes  and  the  suck- 
lings," 

And  I  was  prepared  with  some  brave  ugly  ducklings 
I  was  willing  to  swear  would  prove  to  be  swans, 
Or,  to  tone  up  the  metaphor,  Bellerophons. 
At  least  they'd  no  fear  of  a  chase  round  the  paddock 
After  Pegasus,  who  "might  be  lamed  by  a  bad  hock 
And  so  easily  mounted"  —  I  can  hear  the  malicious 
Sneers  of  the  critics  when  one  dare  be  ambitious 
And  attempt  a  bold  thing,  yet  it's  hard  to  decry  a 
Flight  its  existence  when  above  you  the  flyer 
Is  gyrating  and  plunging  on  his  way  to  the  zenith, 
And  he  grins  the  best  who  at  the  last  grinneth. 
But  my  unknown  old  friend  seemed  to  need  no  ac- 
quainting 

With  this  style  of  horseflesh,  he  would  notice  my  paint- 
ing, 
No  chance  then  at  all  to  confuse  him  by  feinting. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  19 

I  must  prove  that  my  horse  had  his  quota  of  wings, 
Was  sound  wind  and  limb,  that  his  sidles  and  swings 
Were  no  circus  parade,  that  the  man  who  would  stride 

him 

Knew  perfectly  well  why  he  wanted  to  ride  him. 
That   'twas   bareback  or  die,   that   the   fellow  was 

game 

For  whichever  result  was  the  end  of  his  aim. 
As  I  pondered,  I  harboured  no  little  aversion 
At  having  embarked  on  so  great  an  excursion,    • 
Nothing  less,  be  it  said,  than  his  total  conversion. 
"Come,  come,"  he  urged  quickly,  "you're  taking  some 

time 

To  trot  out  your  up-to-date  dabblers  in  rhyme." 
I  pouted,  I  think.   "Ha!  Ha!  you're  offended! 
Because  I  said  *  dabblers'  or  because  I  pretended 
Not  to  know  that  rhyme's  lost  its  erstwhile  predomi- 
nance?" 

I  assured  him  at  once  that  we  gave  no  prominence 
To  rhyme  or  the  lack  of  it.  To  which  he  said  "Good! 
We've  got  somewhere  at  last;  now  let's  have  the  whole 

brood 

In  their  rareness  and  rawness.  I  am  surely  no  prude, 
I  shall  not  be  satisfied  if  you  exclude 
Any  atom  of  character,  any  least  mood. 
Give  your  men  as  you  see  them  from  their  toes  to 

their  chin. 

Only,  for  God's  sake,  my  dear  fellow,  begin." 
Since  he  and  I  wanted  the  same  thing  exactly, 
I  started  to  put  it  quite  matter-of-factly. 


20  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

He  had  spoken  of  acorns,  so  poets  in  a  nutshell 
Should  please  him,  I  thought,  and  they're  none  of 

them  but  shell. 

To  hesitate  longer  would  smack  of  the  boyish, 
And  a  prophet's  ill  served  by  an  attitude  coyish, 
Like  a  diffident  girl  asked  to  play  the  piano. 
I  detest  all  such  feminine  ruses,  and  so 
I  hitched  up  my  mind  as  sailors  and  whalers 
Are  reported  to  do  with  their  trousers  (why  tailors 
Should  so  fashion  these  garments  that  this  act  must 

precede 

Every  truly  stupendous  and  heroic  deed 
I  am  quite  at  a  loss  to  surmise).  To  continue, 
I  exerted  each  muscle  and  braced  every  sinew 
For  the  duty  in  hand.   In  a  fiery  burst 
Which  I  hoped  might  be  eloquence,  I  took  up  the  first 
Poet  I  happened  to  think  of,  explaining  quite  clearly 
That  my  order  of  precedence  meant  nothing  really. 
Number  ten  might  be  easily  rated  as  equal 
To  one  or  fifteen,  if  we  lived  for  the  sequel. 
Here  I  saw  with  concern  he  had  fixed  both  his  eyes  on 
That  soothing  Nirvana  we  call  the  horizon. 
There  was  danger  of  slumber  I  felt,  so  embarking 
On  my  story  with  gusto,  I  began  by  remarking 
(And  here  I  must  add  for  my  just  self-esteem 
That  the  minute  I  spoke  he  awoke  from  his  dream 
And  never  thereafter  did  so  much  as  blink, 
Though  I  thought,  once  or  twice,  I  detected  a  wink.) 
But  I'm  straying  again.   I  remarked  then  succinctly, 
Without  farther  preamble:   . 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  21 

"To  name  them  distinctly, 

There's  Frost  with  his  blueberry  pastures  and  hills 
All  peopled  by  folk  who  have  so  many  ills 
'Tis  a  business  to  count  'em,  their  subtle  insanities. 
One  half  are  sheer  mad,  and  the  others  inanities. 
He'll  paint  you  a  phobia  quick  as  a  wink 
Stuffed  into  a  hay-mow  or  tied  to  a  sink. 
And  then  he'll  deny,  with  a  certain  rich  rapture, 
The  very  perversion  he's  set  out  to  capture. 
Were  it  not  for  his  flowers,  and  orchards,  and  skies, 
One  would  think  the  poor  fellow  was  blind  of  both  eyes 
Or  had  never  read  Freud,  but  it's  only  his  joke. 
If  we're  looking  for  cheer,  he's  a  pig  in  a  poke. 
But  he's  such  a  good  chap,  he  is  welcome  to  say 
Tweedledum's  Tweedledee  if  he's  feeling  that  way. 
When  he  calls  a  thing  yellow  and  you  know  it  is  pink, 
Why,  you've  purchased  his  book  and  you're  welcome 

to  think. 

He's  a  foggy  benignity  wandering  in  space 
With  a  stray  wisp  of  moonlight  just  touching  his  face, 
Descending  to  earth  when  a  certain  condition 
Reminds  him  that  even  a  poet  needs  nutrition, 
Departing  thereafter  to  rarefied  distances 
Quite  unapproachable  to  those  persistencies, 
The  lovers  of  Lions,  who  shout  at  his  tail  — 
At  least  so  he  says  —  when  he  comes  within  hail. 
Majestic,  remote,  a  quite  beautiful  pose, 
(Or  escape,  or  indulgence,  or  all  three,  who  knows?) 
Set  solidly  up  in  a  niche  like  an  oracle 


22  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Dispensing  replies  which  he  thinks  categorical. 
No  wonder  he  cleaves  to  his  leafy  seclusion, 
Barricading  his  door  to  unlawful  intrusion, 
The  goal  of  the  fledgling,  a  god  in  a  thicket, 
To  be  viewed  only  Tuesdays  and  Fridays  by  ticket. 
Yet  note,  if  you  please,  this  is  but  one  degree 
Of  Frost,  there  are  more  as  you'll  presently  see, 
And  some  of  them  are  so  vexatiously  teasing 
All  this  stored  heat  is  needed  to  keep  him  from  freez- 
ing. 

Life  is  dreadfully  hard  on  a  man  who  can  see 
A  rainbow-clad  prophet  a-top  of  each  tree; 
To  whom  every  grass-blade's  a  telephone  wire 
With  Heaven  as  central  and  electrifier. 
He  has  only  to  ring  up  the  switch-board  and  hear 
A  poem  lightly  pattering  into  his  ear, 
But  he  must  be  in  tune  or  the  thing  takes  a  kink, 
An  imminent  lunch-bell  puts  it  all  on  the  blink. 
Some  one  to  be  seen  in  the  late  afternoon 
Throws  all  his  poetical  thoughts  in  a  swoon. 
He  can't  walk  with  one  foot  on  Parnassus,  and  stutter 
Along  with  the  other  foot  deep  in  the  gutter, 
As  many  poets  do,  all  those  who  have  tamely 
Submitted  to  life  as  men  live  it,  and  lamely 
Continue  to  limp,  half  man-in-the-street, 
Half  poet-in-the-air.  How  often  we  meet 
Such  fellows,  they  throng  the  bohemian  centres, 
The  'Blue  Cats'  and  'Pink  Moons'  those  artistic  fre- 
quenters 
Who  eat  at  the  house's  expense  for  the  fame 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  23 

Their  presence  ensures  have  conceived  as  a  name 
Full  of  rich  innuendo.  Though  why  a  strange  hue 
Connected  with  something — moons  pink  or  cats  blue  — 
Should  make  it  so  vicious,  I  can't  see,  can  you? 
These  double-paced  bardlings  are  marvels  at  talking, 
But  their  writing  seems  curiously  given  to  balking, 
A  result,  like  as  not,  of  their  manner  of  walking. 
Not  {50  Frost,  he  divides  his  life  into  two  pieces, 
Keeping  one  for  himself  while  the  other  he  leases 
To  various  colleges.  He's  eclectic  in  choice 
And  at  least  half-a-dozen  have  cause  to  rejoice 
That  he's  sojourned  among  them;  for  his  unique  duty, 
What  they  pay  him  to  do  and  regard  as  their  booty, 
Is  the  odd  one  of  being  on  hand,  nothing  more. 
He's  an  unexplored  mine  you  know  contains  ore; 
Or  rather,  he  acts  as  a  landscape  may  do 
Which  says  one  thing  to  me  and  another  to  you, 
But  which  all  agree  is  a  very  fine  view. 
Such  a  sight  is  experience,  a  wonderful  thing 
To  have  looked  at  and  felt.  This  establishing 
Of  a  poet  in  a  college  like  a  bird  in  a  cage 
Is  a  happy  endowment  for  art  which  our  age 
Is  the  first  to  have  thought  of  and  made  quite  the  rage. 
That  the  poet  cannot  function  while  kept  as  a  zoo, 
Does  not  matter  at  all  to  the  wiseacres  who 
Invented  the  scheme.  They  secure  for  the  year 
That  desideratum,  a  high  atmosphere. 
If  the  poet  who  provides  it  be  drained  to  the  pith, 
That  is  nothing  to  leaving  their  college  a  myth, 
A  tradition,  to  hand  down  to  all  future  classes. 


24  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

A  thing  and  its  shadow  are  one  to  the  masses. 

The  man's  written  his  poems,  now  he  can  recite  them ; 

As  for  new  ones,  he  is  a  great  fool  to  invite  them, 

Notoriety  offers  a  constant  repose, 

Like  a  time-honoured  rose-bush  which  now  bears  no 

rose. 

Instead  of  one  poet,  we've  a  score  of  poetasters. 
Are  we  wise  in  our  method  or  ignorant  wasters? 
Frost  suffers  himself  to  be  bled  for  the  small  fry 
While  Pegasus,  never  a  quiescent  palfrey, 
Stamps  at  the  hitching-post.   Still,  I'm  not  saying 
There  is  really  much  harm  in  this  lengthy  delaying. 
There's  the  other  half-year  and  his  telegraph  grasses 
And  no  college  thrives  on  a  diet  of  asses; 
A  man  must  be  sacrificed  now  and  again 
To  provide  for  the  next  generation  of  men. 
So  if,  once  in  a  while,  a  real  poet  is  captured 
And  bled  for  the  future,  we  should  all  be  enraptured. 
The  violence  done  to  his  own  special  nature 
Is  a  thing  of  no  moment  if  he  add  to  the  stature 
Of  a  handful  of  students,  and  business  is  booming 
For  the  troubadour  poets  in  the  town  he's  illuming. 
They  come,  called  in  shoals  by  the  interest  he  rouses, 
And  talk  of  themselves  to  preposterous  houses. 
But  who,  in  the  end,  has  the  best  of  the  luck, 
The  migrating  birds  or  the  poor  decoy  duck? 
Small  surprise,  when  Commencement  has  ended  the 

year, 

If  our  poet's  first  free  action  is  to  disappear. 
Chained  up  on  a  campus  creating  diurnal 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  25 

Poetic  fine  weather  must  be  an  eternal 
Annoyance,  a  horror,  growing  always  more  biting. 
How  pleasant  his  mountains  must  look,  how  exciting 
The  long  leisured  moments  to  think,  with  no  gaping 
Importunate  youths  whose  lives  he  is  shaping 
Forever  observing  his  least  little  movement. 
Why,  a  bleak  desert  island  would  be  an  improvement 
On  such  an  existence.  Though  we  should  be  proud 
That  there  is  such  a  man  to  let  loose  on  a  crowd 
Of  young  bears,  any  one  of  whom  may  become  Presi- 
dent, 

We  should  be  even  prouder  to  know  him  a  resident 
Of  our  woods  and  our  hills,  a  neighbour  of  neighbours, 
A  singer  of  country-sides  and  country  labours, 
Like  a  hermit  thrush  deep  in  a  wood  whose  fresh  fire 
Of  song  burns  the  whole  air  to  music,  and  higher 
Up-soars  till  it  seems  not  one  voice  but  a  choir  — 
The  choir  of  his  people  whose  hearths  are  the  altars 
Of  that  deep  race-religion  which  in  him  never  falters, 
His  life  is  its  worship,  his  songs  are  its  psalters. 
Prophet,  seer,  psalmist,  is  the  world  so  importunate 
As  to  leave  you  no  peace  even  here?  You  are  fortunate 
At  least  to  abide,  remote  as  the  fables, 
In  a  place  much  neglected  by  railroad  time-tables. 
I  promise,  for  one,  when  I  turn  from  the  wicket, 
That  the  name  of  your  town  will  not  be  on  my  ticket. 
You  have  as  much  right  to  protect  your  seclusion 
As  any  old  monk  of  the  order  Carthusian, 
Though  solitude  really  is  but  an  illusion 
As  most  men  find  out  to  their  utter  confusion. 


26  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

To  speak  of  seclusion  is  to  think  of  a  man 

Who  is  built  on  a  totally  otherwise  plan,     i 

I  mean,  and  I  rather  imagine  you  know  it, 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson,  excellent  poet, 

And  excellent  person,  but  vague  as  a  wood 

Gazed  into  at  dusk.  His  preponderant  mood 

Is  withdrawal,  and  why?  For  a  man  of  his  stamp, 

So  conscious  of  people,  it  seems  odd  to  scamp 

Experience  and  contact,  to  live  in  a  hollow 

Between  the  four  winds  and  perpetually  swallow 

The  back  draughts  of  air  from  a  swift  forward  motion. 

It  takes  a  huge  strength  to  withstand  all  emotion, 

But  Robinson  stays  with  his  feet  planted  square 

In  the  middle  of  nothing,  the  vacuum  where 

The  world's  swinging  starts  and  whirls  out,  where  is  left 

The  dead  root  of  movement,  an  emptiness  cleft 

In  the  heart  of  an  aim,  of  all  aims,  peering  out 

At  the  dust  and  the  grass-blades  that  swirl  all  about. 

He  notes  who  is  here,  who  is  coming  along, 

Who  has  passed  by  alone,  who  is  one  of  a  throng. 

He  peers  with  intentness  bent  all  into  seeing, 

A  critical  eye  finely  pointed  on  being. 

He  is  cruel  with  dispassion,  as  though  he  most  dreaded 

Some  shiver  of  feeling  might  yet  be  imbedded 

Within  him.  And  if  this  occurrence  should  happen, 

He  would  probably  see  himself  with  a  fool's  cap  on 

And  feel  himself  sinking  to  shipwreck  at  once; 

Of  the  two,  much  preferring  disaster  to  dunce. 

For  the  dunce  is  contingent  on  a  sort  of  a  curse 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  27 

He  thinks  he  is  doomed  with.  A  curious,  perverse 

Undercutting  of  Fate  which  decrees  him  observer 

And  hoods  him  in  ice  from  all  possible  fervour. 

The  slightest  conceivable  hint  of  a  thaw 

Wounds  his  conscience  as  though  he  had  broken  a  law 

He  had  sworn  to  uphold.  Are  there  demons  in  hiding 

Within  his  ice-mail?  Can  he  feel  them  abiding 

A  time  to  break  loose  and  disrupt  into  tatters 

The  scheme  of  existence  he  has  taught  himself  matters, 

A  barrier  raised  betwixt  him  and  his  satyrs? 

For  he  has  them ;  his  quaint,  artificial  control 

Is  a  bandage  drawn  tightly  to  hold  down  his  soul. 

Should  a  nail  or  a  thorn  tear  the  least  little  mesh,  it 

Would  let  all  his  nature  go  leaping  in  freshet 

Overflowing  his  banks  and  engulfing  his  dams 

In  a  flurry  of  life.   But  the  desolate  calms 

He  has  cherished  so  long  would  be  lost  in  the  slams, 

The  torrential  vortices  of  a  swift  current 

Exploding  in  motion.  Some  uncouth,  deterrent 

Complex  in  his  make-up  enforces  recoil 

Before  the  fatigue  and  the  wrench  of  turmoil. 

He  compounds  with  inertia  by  calling  it  Fate, 

Deeply  dreading  the  rush  of  emotion  in  spate, 

Distrusting  his  power  to  outwit  disaster 

In  the  realization  that  with  him  fast  means  faster, 

And  refusing  to  see  that  a  turbulent  strife  , 

Is  the  valuable  paradox  given  to  life 

Which  only  the  few  may  possess.  With  the  prize 

In  his  hand,  he  turns  sadly  away,  crucifies 

His  manhood  each  day  with  the  old  dog's-eared  lies, 


28  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

The  heritage,  left  by  those  Puritan  heirs. 
His  bogies  and  satyrs  are  grandsons  of  theirs. 
Could  he  see  them  as  fruit-trees  distorted  by  mist, 
He  might  unknot  himself  from  the  terrible  twist 
He  has  suffered  through  fear  of  them.  Now,  with 

vicarious 

Experience  in  verse,  he  cheats  all  the  various 
Impulses  within  him  which  make  him  a  poet; 
But,  try  as  he  will,  his  poems  all  show  it. 
His  tight  little  verses  an  inch  in  diameter, 
His  quatrains  and  whole-book-long  tales  in  pentameter, 
With  never  a  hint  of  what  he'd  call  a  sham  metre, 
Though  some  people  style  his  kind  ad  nauseam  metre  — 
With  gimlets  for  eyes  and  a  sensitive  heart, 
All  battened  down  tight  in  the  box  of  his  art, 
And  we  have  his  rare  merits  and  his  strange  deficiencies 
Which  mix  to  a  porridge  of  peculiar  efficiencies. 
Admired  by  every  one  dowered  with  wit, 
He  has  scarcely  the  qualifications  to  hit 
The  unlettered  public,  but  the  fact  that  his  name 
Is  already  spotted  with  the  lichens  of  fame 
Opens  up  a  most  fecund  and  pertinent  query 
And  is  one  of  the  pedestals  on  which  my  theory 
Is  based:  whether  now  we  have  not  reached  the  stage 
Of  a  perfectly  genuine  coming-of-age. 
I  am  willing  to  swear  that  when  he  has  retired 
His  books  will  be  listed  as  'reading  required/ 
And  poor  sweltering  youths  taking  examinations 
Will  crown  him  with  the  bays  of  their  wild  lamenta- 
tions. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  29 

Our  beautiful  system  is  to  make  every  course  able 
To  render  delight  quite  sterile  through  forcible 
Insistence  upon  it.   But  these  are  the  laurels 
With  which  no  man  who's  not  insane  ever  quarrels. 
Perhaps  it's  as  well  not  to  look  at  the  guerdon 
Too  closely  or  no  one  would  shoulder  the  burden 
Of  being  a  poet. 

The  next  I  shall  take  up 
Is  a  fellow  as  utterly  different  in  make-up 
As  you're  likely  to  see  if  you  scour  the  land 
With  field-glasses  and  microscopes.  This  is  Carl  Sand- 
burg, a  strange,  gifted  creature,  as  slow  as  a  fog 
Just  lifting  to  sunshine,  a  roughly  hewn  Gog, 
Shorn  of  his  twin  Magog,  set  over  the  portal 
Through  which  brawls  the  stream  of  everything  mortal. 
Day  and  night  he  observes  it,  this  river  of  men, 
With  a  weary- sweet,  unflagging  interest,  and  ten 
Times  in  a  day  he  seeks  to  detach 
Himself  from  the  plinth  where  he's  destined  to  watch, 
And  mingle  as  one  of  them,  mistaking  his  stature 
To  be  but  that  generally  ordained  by  nature 
For  the  run  of  humanity.   His  miscalculations 
Of  the  possible  height  to  which  civilizations 
May  rightly  aspire  are  constantly  leading 
Him  into  positions  whence  there's  no  proceeding. 
Because  he  can  easily  reach  to  the  stars, 
He  cannot  believe  that  a  short  arm  debars 
Any  others  from  doing  the  same,  and  declares 
His  qualifications  assuredly  theirs. 


30  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Endowing  each  man  whom  he  meets  with  his  own 
Stretch  and  feeling,  he  takes  for  the  foundation  stone 
Of  his  creed  the  ability  to  walk  cheek  by  jowl 
With  the  sun,  at  the  same  time  not  losing  control 
Of  feet  always  set  on  the  earth.   It  is  droll 
To  hear  him  announce  neither  giants  nor  pigmies 
Exist,  that  there's  only  one  knowable  size, 
Which  by  implication's  as  tall  as  the  skies. 
What  he  feels  about  souls,  he  has  brought  into  speech, 
But  since  perfect  English  is  a  hard  thing  to  teach 
To  those  brought  up  without  it,  he  changes  his  tactics 
And  declares  correct  use  the  hypochondriactics 
Of  language  too  timid  for  red-blooded  slang. 
This  theory  of  his  is  a  swift  boomerang 
Overturning  his  balance  and  flooring  him  pell-mell,  he 
Presents  the  strange  sight  of  a  man  on  his  belly 
Proclaiming  that  all  men  walk  that  way  from  preference 
And  the  manner,  though  new,  must  be  treated  with 

deference. 

Since  his  own  natural  speech  is  correct  to  a  dot, 
His  theory,  to  use  the  red-blooded,  is  'rot/ 
And  as  man  does  not  wiggle  along  like  a  jelly 
When  he  walks,  to  affect  that  laid  flat  on  the  belly 
Is  the  easiest  position  to  attain  locomotion 
Must  surely  be  called  a  preposterous  notion. 
But  what's  the  poor  fellow  to  do?   It  is  plain 
He  overtops  folk  if  he  stands;  once  again 
It's  the  hill  and  Mohammed,  since  he  can't  raise  the 

others 
He  must  lie  if  he'd  be  the  same  height  as  his  brothers. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  31 

It  may  weary  his  readers  to  see  a  true  poet 
Who  apparently  has  not  the  instinct  to  know  it, 
And  so  burdens  his  beauty  with  wild  propaganda 
That  much  of  his  work  is  a  hideous  slander 
Against  his  remarkable  genius,  but  scratch  it 
With  a  prudent  pen-knife  and   there's  nothing  to 

match  it 

Going  on  in  the  whole  world  to-day.  He  has  sight 
Of  a  loveliness  no  man  has  seen,  and  a  might, 
A  great  flowing  power  of  words  to  express 
Its  hugeness  and  littleness.  All  the  excess 
Of  his  passion  for  living  leaps  out  from  his  pen 
In  a  gtish  of  fresh  imminence ;  again  and  again 
We  read  him  to  fill  our  soul's  withering  lungs 
With  the  wind-over-water  sweep  which  is  his  tongue's 
Particular  gift  —  though  I  should  have  said  'prairies, ' 
Not  'water/  he  is  no  result  of  the  seas, 
But  in  every  whiff  of  him,  flat  and  extended, 
A  man  of  the  plains,  whose  horizons  are  ended 
By  the  upreach  of  earth  to  that  sky  which  he  touches 
And  carries  off  great  fragments  of  in  his  clutches. 
Wood-smoke,  and  water-smoke  rising  from  runnels 
At  sunrise,  long  lines  of  black  smoke  from  the  funnels 
Of  engines  and  factories,  steel  of  man's  forging 
And  steel  he's  forged  into;  the  slow,  passive  gorging 
Of  earth  with  mankind,  blood  of  souls,  blood  of  hearts, 
Swallowed  into  the  fields  where  the  sprouting  grain 

parts 

A  right  rail  from  a  left  rail,  and  always  asunder 
Go  marching  the  fields  cleft  in  two  by  the  wonder 


32  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Of  man  gauging  distance  as  magic  and  burning  it 
Under  boot-heels  or  car-wheels  and  all  the  time  earn- 
ing it 

For  the  silt  of  his  mind  from  which  a  new  soil 
Is  gradually  risen.   This  turgescent  coil 
Is  the  crawling  of  glaciers,  the  upheave  of  hills, 
The  process  of  making  and  change,  the  huge  spills 
Of  watersheds  seeking  their  oceans,  the  miracle 
Of  creeping  continuance.  This  is  the  lyrical 
Stuff  Sandburg  works  into  something  as  lazy 
And  deep  as  geology  planting  its  clays,  he 
Makes  keenly,  unhastingly,  as  evolution, 
And  yet,  poor  blind  eagle,  he  dreams  revolution. 
With  the  centuries  his  if  he  could  but  decide 
To  pocket  his  picayune,  popular  pride, 
Give  up  his  day-dreams  and  his  tin-penny  logic, 
Be  Gog  as  God  made  him  and  not  demagogic, 
Sit  solidly  down  with  his  eyes  and  his  heart, 
And  a  file  and  a  chisel,  to  fashion  great  art  — 
If  he  would,  but  will  he?  It  really  is  vexing 
To  see  such  a  fellow  perpetually  flexing 
His  knees  to  false  idols,  a  mere  artizan 
When  he  might  be  an  artist.   Some  historian 
Of  the  future  will  round  him  up  in  an  abstract 
By  denouncing  the  times  as  too  matter-of-fact, 
Not  observing  what  might  well  be  seen  for  the  look- 
ing 

That  it's  simply  a  case  of  not  quite  enough  cooking. 
An  accredited  hero  or  a  dream-blinded  sloven 
Is  entirely  a  matter  of  stoking  the  oven. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  33 

The  material's  certainly  A  number  one, 

It  will  be  his  own  fault  if  he  dies  underdone. 

The  man  whom  I  next  shall  bring  to  the  fore 

Is  becoming,  I  fear,  an  impossible  bore. 

Some  few  years  ago,  Minerva  mislaid 

Her  glasses,  and  unable  to  see  in  the  shade, 

Feeling  also,  quite  naturally,  rather  afraid 

To  proclaim  that  she  wore  them,  like  any  old  maid 

Teaching  school  —  for  a  Goddess  is  loath  to  parade 

Her  antiquity,  even  as  others  —  she  said 

No  word  of  the  matter  at  home  on  Olympus. 

A  pity,  because  a  very  bad  impasse 

Might  have  so  been  averted.    The  handmaids  and 

lackeys, 
Who  are  always  possessed  of  both  front  door  and  back 

keys, 

Would  have  hunted  the  palace  from  cellar  to  roof 
And  most  probably  found  them  not  very  aloof 
From  the  spot  where  poor  Vulcan,  in  playing  Tar- 

tuffe, 

Had  received  a  convincing  and  permanent  proof 
That  the  lady  was  chaste.   Indeed,  however  frigid, 
No  woman  of  spirit  admits  to  the  rigid 
Mathematical  count  of  the  years  after  forty, 
And  even  immortals,  though  reputed  quite  'sporty,' 
And  figuring  time  by  the  so  many  centuries, 
Still  scarcely  desire  to  add  up  the  entries 
And  publish  the  total.  Minerva,  then,  hid 
The  fact  that  she  could  not  quite  see  what  she  did, 


34  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

And  since  it  would  give  things  away  to  inquire,  *  Oh 
She  could  not  do  that!'  And  after  a  giro 
Which  blindly  confused  every  main  street  and  by- 
row, 

In  the  end  she  conferred  a  great  book  on  a  tyro. 
The  author  in  question,  though  an  excellent  notary, 
Could  scarcely  be  classed  at  that  time  as  a  votary 
Worth  Minerva's  attention.  But,  however  unsuitable, 
The  deed,  once  accomplished,  became  quite  immu- 
table. 

No  matter  how  foolish  she  felt,  the  poor  Goddess 
Must  carry  it  through  in  a  pitiless  progress. 
For  be  sure,  when  her  family  learnt  of  her  blunder, 
Which  they  very  soon  did,  she'd  have  welcomed  Jove's 

thunder 

To  be  quit  of  his  really  abominable  quizzing. 
His  jokes  were  caught  up  by  Neptune  and  sent  whizzing 
For  Vulcan  to  cap  them,  and  as  he  was  still  smarting 
Beneath  the  rebuke  she'd  not  spared  him  at  parting, 
He  gave  her  good  measure  now  he'd  got  the  upper 
Hand.  Then  the  women  joined  in;  what  at  supper 
Was  observed  was  rehashed  for  breakfast  and  dinner, 
Even  Venus  said  *  Minnie,  you  have  picked  a  winner! 
From  all  that  I  hear,  your  man  is  verbose. 
He'll  print  in  ten  volumes,  a  very  large  dose 
For  you  to  inspire.'   'Oh,  Minnie  is  game,' 
Cried  Mercury,  kind-hearted  boy.   'All  the  same,' 
Growled  Vulcan,  'if  Min  can  hold  out,  'twould  be 

speedier 
To  imbue  him  at  once  with  an  encyclopedia.' 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  35 

Here  Minerva,  in  tears  which  begemmed  her  found 

glasses, 

Declared  her  relations  were  all  of  them  asses, 
That  she  cared  not  a  fig  for  their  tuppenny  threats 
Having  settled  the  book  to  be  done  in  vignettes. 
The  Gods  broke  out  laughing.  'Give  Minnie  the  han- 
dle 

And  not  one  of  you  is  worth  even  her  sandal/ 
Shouted  Jove,  l she's  arranged  for  a  succes  de  scandal.' 
Which  she  had,  and  her  poet,  never  doubting  the  giver, 
Wrote  steadily  on  without  the  least  quiver, 
And  at  last,  in  due  course,  was  published  '  Spoon 

River/ 

Now  having  explained  the  volume's  true  genesis, 
Let  me  say  it  is  not  for  a  party  where  tennis  is 
In  order,  or  bridge.   If  you  like  porcupining 
Your  soul  with  your  conscience,  here's  a  chance  for 

refining  , 

On  misery,  and  since  Minerva'd  a  hand  in  it 
No  person  need  doubt  that  there's  plenty  of  sand  in  it. 
Of  course  the  thing's  genius  no  matter  how  squint-eyed, 
And  the  reader  who  never  once  weeps  must  be  flint- 
eyed. 

But  hey,  Mr.  Masters,  how  weary  and  dreary 
You  make  all  your  folk!  How  impossibly  smeary 
And  sticky  they  are  with  old  amorous  contacts, 
A  series  of  ticketed,  sexual  facts 
Tucked  away,  all  unwashed,  in  the  ground.  Who  once 

told  you 
The  great,  biological  truths  with  a  few 


36  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Dirty  smudges  you've  never  forgotten,  like  plasters 
Thumbed  tight  to  your  mind?  They're  the  trade-mark 

of  'Masters.' 

Whatever  he's  writing  —  Minerva  inspired 
As  this  book,  *  Spoon  River';  or,  nervous  and  tired, 
Worrying  his  public  as  a  dog  does  a  bone 
As  in  'Domesday  Book,'  done,  you'll  agree,  quite 

alone  — 

They  all  have  the  stamp  of  back-alley  lust 
Which  you  stand  as  you  can,  for  stand  it  you  must 
If  you'd  read  him  at  all.   I've  no  wish  to  cloud  over 
The  fame  of  a  book  which,  from  cover  to  cover, 
Shows  the  trace  of  Minerva's  most  helpful  collusion. 
The  hall-marks  of  genius  are  here  in  profusion. 
People  swarm  through  its  pages  like  ants  in  a  hill, 
No  one's  like  the  others,  a  personal  will 
Makes  each  man  what  he  is  and  his  life  what  it  was. 
The  modern  Balzac?  Not  at  all  —  the  new  'Boz!' 
Where  the  Frenchman  employed  an  urbane  modera- 
tion, 

The  Englishman  gloried  in  exaggeration. 
But,  in  spite  of  his  gargoyles,  his  fine  gift  of  humour 
Kept  even  his  quaintness  from  the  taint  of  ill-rumour. 
In  a  grin  of  delight,  he  played  tricks  with  his  drawing, 
And  no  matter  how  far  from  the  real  he  was  yawing 
His  object  were  merely  a  louder  guffawing. 
He  never  believed  his  grotesques  were  true  pictures 
Of  life,  he  knew  perfectly  well  men  are  mixtures 
Of  rather  more  this  or  a  little  less  that; 
No  man  is  pure  angel  and  none  is  sheer  brat. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  37 

Where  he  painted  them  so,  it  was  done  to  enhance 
Some   meaning  he  wished   to  make   clear;  circum- 
stance 

Induced  him  to  stress  both  the  gall  and  the  honey, 
And  no  one  knew  better  just  when  to  be  funny. 
Mr.  Masters,  quite  otherwise,  thinks  his  creations 
Reveal  abstract  truth  in  their  vilest  relations. 
He  sees  every  one  as  the  suffering  prey 
Of  some  low,  hidden  instinct,  his  business  to  flay 
The  decency  off  them  and  show  them  all  naked, 
A  few  of  them  zanies,  the  rest  downright  wicked. 
In  all  his  vast  gallery  there's  but  one  exception, 
And  that,  I  hold,  is  to  have  wrought  with  deception. 
If  some  excellent  sense  of  the  really  amusing 
Had  led  him  to  practise  a  little  more  fusing 
Of  the  good  and  the  bad,  his  book  had  succeeded 
In  being  the  great  masterpiece  we  have  needed 
Ever  since  the  beginning.  As  it  is,  his  caprice 
Has  given  us  only  a  great  Masters*  piece. 
How  Minerva  deserted  him  all  through  the  sequel, 
We  can  easily  see  if  we  hunt  for  an  equal 
Success  in  the  list  of  his  subsequent  works. 
Each  hitches  along  in  a  series  of  jerks. 
He  tries  lyrics,  and  ballads,  and  novels  in  verse, ' 
But  lacks  always  the  wit  to  return  to  the  terse. 
In  the  last,  '  Domesday  Book/  he  relied  upon  Brown- 
ing 

To  replace  Minerva  and  keep  him  from  drowning. 
Shallow  hope !  He  achieved  a  self-hitting  satire, 
Mr.  Masters  looked  so  odd  in  Browning's  attire. 


38  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

The  huge  bulk  of  his  book  brought  to  mind  the  old 

fable 

Of  the  bull-frog  who,  seeing  an  ox  in  the  stable, 
Puffed  up  till  he  burst  in  a  vain-glorious  trying 
To  attain  the  same  size.   But  no  magnifying 
Can  make  of  unripeness  a  thing  brought  to  a  finish, 
For  blowing  it  up  only  makes  it  look  thinnish. 
If  asked  my  opinion,  I  think  that  Minerva 
Was  cruel  to  abandon  the  r61e  of  preserver. 
To  lift  a  man  suddenly  out  of  obscurity 
And  leave  him  quite  solus  in  his  prematurity 
Was  not,  I  think,  cricket.   (I  like  to  imply  an 
Acquaintance  with  idioms  as  remote  as  the  Chian, 
They  read  like  a  dash  of  the  pepper  called  Cayenne.) 
To  conclude,  I  believe,  when  the  Gods  have  done  chaff- 
ing, 

Minerva  will  one  morning  catch  herself  laughing, 
And,  as  laughing's  a  good-natured  act  to  fall  into, 
I  should  not  be  surprised  if  she  found  she  had  been 

too 

High-handed  and  harsh  in  her  speedy  desertion 
Of  an  author  who  might  have  become  her  diversion 
Had  her  relatives  not  been  so  prompt  with  their  jeers. 
Then,  totalling  up  the  count  of  the  years 
And  the  works  she'd  permitted  her  erstwhile  proteg£ 
To  publish  without  her  assistance,  ' Heyday!1 
I  can  hear  her  exclaiming.  4  This  will  scarcely  redound 
To  my  credit,  and  since  the  world  knows  that  I  found 
Him  and  helped  him,  I  really  think  it  would  be  better 
If  I  helped  him  again  to  become  the  begetter 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  39 

Of  another  'Spoon  River,'  or  at  least  some  quite  fine 

thing 

Which  folk  will  acknowledge  to  be  a  divine  thing/ 
I  should  not  be  astonished  if,  touched  to  the  marrow, 
Minerva  set  out  in  her  largest  Pierce  Arrow, 
Or  else  (since  I  would  not  pretend  to  a  choice) 
Departed  in  her  most  expensive  Rolls-Royce, 
With  a  dozen  or  two  extremely  sharp  axes, 
Three  or  four  different  saws,  and  various  waxes, 
A  hammer  and  nails,  also  scissors  and  strings, 
The  whole  bundle  of  tools  which  a  good  workman 

brings 

To  a  job  who's  no  wish  to  go  back  for  his  '  things.' 
Arriving  chez  Masters,  there'll  be  a  short  parley, 
And  I  conjure  the  world  not  to  miss  the  finale." 

At  this  point  in  my  tale,  there  suddenly  grew 
On  my  ear  a  low  sound  like  wind  sweeping  through 
Many  acres  of  pine-trees;  but,  even  as  I  listened, 
It  changed  into  bird-calls  which  merrily  glistened 
Like  sun-spattered  feathers  of  tone  through  the  glanc- 
ing 

Of  leaves  over  water  where  shadows  are  dancing. 
Once  again  was  a  change,  and  I  heard  the  low  roar 
Of  surf  beating  up  against  a  rock  shore; 
This  gave  place  to  the  clanging  of  bells  over  valleys 
And  the  long  monotone  of  horns  blown  from  Swiss 

chalets. 

I  'd  scarcely  determined  that  fact  when  again 
It  transmuted  itself  into  pattering  rain, 


40  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Which  fused  in  its  turn  to  harsh  drums  and  to  blares 

Of  tin  trumpets,  the  kind  that  you  meet  with  at  fairs. 

But  before  I'd  accustomed  myself  to  the  noise, 

It  rose  quiet,  single,  enduring  in  poise, 

Held  high  to  a  balance  above  growling  thunder 

As  though  I  were  harkening  to  the  world's  wonder, 

The  organ  at  Harlem,  while  the  "  Mourning  of  Rachel " 

Was  played  —  and  I  knew  I  was  listening  to  Vachel. 

"Who  else  has,  or  ever  has  had,  such  a  voice 

As  is  his,  Vachel  Lindsay's?  Whatever  his  choice, 

Be  it  singing,  exhorting,  making  fun,  prophesying, 

It  is  equally  lovely  and  soul-satisfying. 

He's  a  composite  choir,  whether  shouting  or  chanting, 

Whoever's  heard  once  must  admit  to  a  haunting 

Nostalgia  to  hear  him  again.   It's  enchanting. 

A  Sunday-school  orator,  plus  inspiration, 

The  first  ballad-singer,  bar  none,  of  the  Nation. 

When  he  is  performing,  I  acknowledge  to  being 

More  delighted  with  hearing  than  I  am  with  seeing. 

Perhaps  I'm  self-conscious,  but  his  postures  and  poses 

Do  not  strike  me  as  happily  chosen  for  Moses 

Bearing  down  from  the  mountain  his  Tables  of  Stone, 

Otherwise  the  part  fits  him  as  though  'twere  his  own. 

When  he  starts  in  proclaiming  his  credo  of  new  laws, 

They  appear  to  be  vaudeville  stunts  dashed  with  blue 

laws. 

He's  so  desperately  earnest  there's  no  modifying  him, 
And  that  wonderful  voice  is  forever  enskying  him. 
There's  a  sober  old  owl  and  a  bright  dragon-fly  in  him, 
But  clearly  there's  nothing  at  all  of  the  dry  in  him. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  41 

An  odd,  antic  fellow,  but  if  you  insist 

On  the  unvarnished  truth,  a  sublime  egotist 

Delighting  to  cover  his  titles  and  fly-leaves 

With  the  personal  notes  his  omnipresent  '  I '  leaves. 

This  trait  should  endear  him  to  every  collector 

Long  after  his  ego's  become  a  mere  spectre. 

If  his  writing's  so  chic  that  you  can't  read  a  particle, 

Why,  all  the  more  grist  for  a  bibliophile's  article. 

He's  a  sort  of  mad  xylophone,  twinkling  his  bells 

Before  all  the  doors  of  the  thirty-six  Hells. 

No  whirligig  dervish  gyrating  his  piety 

Can  ever  be  less  moved  than  he  with  anxiety 

Lest  his  furious  rhythms  may  show  impropriety 

And  injure  his  creed  in  the  eyes  of  society. 

He  knows  his  own  heart  and  its  innate  sobriety 

And  cares  nothing  for  fools  who  may  note  with  dubiety 

A  worship  which  ranges  through  so  much  variety. 

A  mighty  jazz  dancer  before  the  Lord!  — 

I  can  think  of  no  happier  term  to  record 

His  effect  when  reciting.  He's  astoundingly  mystic 

Even  when  he  purports  to  be  most  naturalistic, 

A  queer  ancient  trait  we  may  call  Judaistic, 

Engraft  on  a  style  which  is  pure  Methodistic. 

He  is  always  attempting  to  fathom  his  soul, 

But  he  cannot  get  hold  of  a  long  enough  pole. 

As  he  uses  an  ancient  one  which  he  inherited, 

Perhaps,  after  all,  his  failure  is  merited. 

It's  a  battered  old  thing  might    be   John  Wesley's 

staff, 
Good  enough  in  its  day,  but  too  short  by  half 


42  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

To  reach  to  his  bottom.    Still  there's  something  so 

stable 

In  his  love  for  the  heirloom,  it  might  pass  for  a  label. 
The  fellow  has  scarce  an  iota  of  logic 
Though  he  leans  rather  strongly  toward  the  pedagogic. 
These  two  traits  make  his  teaching  less  vivid  than  tak- 
ing, 

He  appears  as  the  herald  of  some  proud  awaking, 
But  what  it's  to  be,  I  dare  swear  he's  no  whit 
More  enlightened  than  we  are,  not  one  little  bit. 
I  like  his  conceit  of  the  amaranth  apples, 
(The  word  is  so  charming,  the  look  of  it  dapples 
His  page  with  sunshine)  and  his  modern  Valkyri, 
A  cross  between  Joan  of  Arc  and  a  fairy  — 
I,  too,  should  have  relished  some  good  latakia 
At  a  table  for  two  behind  clumps  of  spirea 
At  the  top  of  his  Truth  Tower  cafeteria 
With  this  twenty-first  century  wise  young  Medea. 
Who  wouldn't,  indeed!   But  the  sweepings  and  shav- 
ings 

I  gather  up  after  her  talk  seem  mere  ravings, 
The  opaline  fancies  of  moonlight  and  youth. 
Among  them  I  scarcely  can  plot  out  one  truth 
Plain  enough  to  be  platformed  by  some  voting  sleuth 
And  paraded  before  the  precinct  polling-booth. 
What's  the  difference,  say  I,  since  the  book  is  as  airy 
As  the  dew-dripping  song  of  a  young  wild  canary. 
Who  dotes  on  perusing  economists'  tracts? 
There  are  millions  of  volumes  which  deal  with  mere 
faces. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  43 

I  prefer  this  spiced  basket  of  rose  and  camelia, 

And  a  populace  dancing  a  gay  seguidilla 

Under  Tajes  Mahal,  with  the  star-chimes  all  ringing. 

(That  term,  by  the  way,  simply  does  its  own  singing.) 

*  Amaranth  apple-trees,  sandal -wood  thickets!' 

Bless  the  man  who  has  shown  us  the  way  through  the 
.  wickets 

Which  lead  to  this  pleasance,  and  haply  the  leaven 

Works  none  the  less  well  because  he  calls  it  Heaven. 

The  book  is  the  whole  of  him,  minus  his  rhythm. 

But  the  others  —  how  often  I  pass  a  day  with  them, 

Boomlaying  and  shouting,  *  creeping  through  the 
black,1 

With  a  whole  troop  of  nigger-gods  yelling  at  my 
back, 

And  the  motors  whizzing  with  their  '  crack-crack- 
crack,' 

Till  at  last  I  strike  the  wheat-ridge  track 

And  up  along  a  mulberry  lane 

I  listen  to  the  song  of  the  Rachel-Jane. 

And  as  I  listen,  perhaps  it  is  absurd, 

The  singer  changes  to  a  small  grey  bird, 

And  then  I  see  the  purple  quiver 

Of  a  rainbow  junk  on  a  silver  river. 

I  know  that  'Spring  comes  on  forever.' 

I  know  it  by  heart,  I  have  heard  the  tale 

From  Lindsay's  jade-grey  nightingale. 

I  shall  never  forget  it,  because  I  know  it 

By  heart.  This  tribute?  Do  I  not  owe  it! 

Forgive  me  then,  most  fanciful  poet, 


44  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

If  I  find  in  you  rarest,  gravest  delight 

When  you  would  have  brought  me  to  Heaven's  height. 

I  am  very  well  off  where  I  am,  I  think, 

Still  you  certainly  write  with  a  golden  ink, 

But  I  wish  you  would  give  us  more  of  the  Chink." 

At  which  juncture,  I  paused  to  see  if  my  friend, 

Who  had  not  said  a  word,  might  have  ceased  to  attend. 

Far  from  it,  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  my  face 

With  an  eager  insistence  as  if  he  would  trace 

My  meaning  beyond  the  mere  words.  "What  you  say," 

He  broke  silence  at  last  in  his  impassive  way, 

"Proves  your  poets  to  be  certainly  not  of  my  day. 

You  put  the  fact  gently,  but  we  are  .passe. 

At  least  that  I  presume's  what  you  wish  to  convey." 

With  a  horrified  gesture  I  started  to  say  — 

But  what?  Thank  the  Lord  I  had  no  time  to  get  in 

The  something  I  should  have  wrapt  up  my  regret  in, 

Like  a  pill  in  a  sugar-plum,  since  he  went  on: 

"I  should  not  be  surprised,  as  your  judgment  anon, 

If  I  heard  you  correctly,  was  for  Miss  Dickinson, 

With  Whitman  and  Poe.   To  throw  off  constraint, 

I  will  say  I  consider  your  pronouncement  quaint. 

But  I'm  not  so  at  sea  to  account  for  the  cause 

As  before  your  narration  I  certainly  was. 

For  the  men,  Til  admit  there  is  room  for  dispute; 

But  the  choice  of  Miss  Dickinson  I  must  refute." 

Then  seeing  me  shrug,  he  observed,  "I  am  human, 

And  hardly  can  bear  to  allow  that  a  woman 

Is  ever  quite  equal  to  man  in  the  arts; 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  45 

The  two  sexes  cannot  be  ranked  counterparts. " 
"My  dear  Sir,"  I  exclaimed,  "if  you'd  not  been  afraid 
Of  Margaret  Fuller's  success,  you'd  have  stayed 
Your  hand  in  her  case  and  more  justly  have  rated 

her." 
Here  he  murmured  morosely,  "My  God,  how  I  hated 

her! 

But  have  you  no  women  whom  you  must  hate  too? 
I  shall  think  all  the  better  of  you  if  you  do, 
And  of  them,  I  may  add."   I  assured  him,  "A  few. 
But  I  scarcely  think  man  feels  the  same  contradictory 
Desire  to  love  them  and  shear  them  of  victory?" 
"You  think  wrong,  my  young  friend,"  he  declared 

with  a  frown, 

"Man  will  always  love  woman  and  always  pull  down 
What  she  does."  "Well,  of  course,  if  you  will  hug  the 

cynical, 

It  is  quite  your  affair,  but  there  is  the  pinnacle. 
She's  welcome  to  climb  with  man  if  she  wishes." 
"And  fall  with  a  crash  like  a  trayful  of  dishes," 
He  answered  at  once,  "but  if  there's  no  gainsaying  her, 
There's  certainly  not  the  least  use  in  delaying  her." 
"Very  well,"  I  assured  him,  and  quite  without  mock- 
ery, 

"But  I  know  several  women  not  yet  broken  crockery. 
Amy  LTowell,  for  instance,"  I  spoke  a  bit  clammily. 
"Good  Heavens!"  he  shouted,  "not  one  of  the  family! 
I  remember  they  used  to  be  counted  by  dozens, 
But  I  never  was  interested  in  immature  cousins." 
"They  grow,  I  believe."  The  retort  was  so  pat 


46  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

There  was  nothing  to  say,  and  he  pulled  down  his  hat. 
I  continued:  "But  since  this  is  not  genealogy, 
You  '11  permit  me  to  waive  any  sort  of  analogy 
Between  her  and  your  friend.  No  one  likes  to  be  bound 
In  a  sort  of  perpetual  family  pound 
Tied  by  esprit  de  corps  to  the  wheels  of  the  dead. 
A  poet  above  all  people  must  have  his  head. 
Indeed  it's  been  whispered  the  lady  sees  red 
When  the  subject  is  broached,  she  will  find  her  own 

latitude." 

"My  friend,  were  he  here,  would  extol  such  an  atti- 
tude/' 

He  said  very  gravely.   "But  proceed,  Sir,  I  pray." 
I  hastened  as  fast  as  I  could  to  obey: 
"  Conceive,  if  you  can,  an  electrical  storm 
Of  a  swiftness  and  fury  surpassing  the  norm ; 
Conceive  that  this  cyclone  has  caught  up  the  rainbow 
And  dashed  dizzily  on  with  it  streaming  in  tow. 
Imagine  a  sky  all  split  open  and  scissored 
By  lightnings,  and  then  you  can  picture  this  blizzard. 
That  is,  if  you'll  also  imagine  the  clashes 
Of  tropical  thunder,  the  incessant  crashes 
Which  shiver  the  hearing  and  leave  it  in  ashes. 
Remember,  meanwhile,  that  the  sky  is  prismatic  i 
And  outrageous  with  colour.   The  effect  is  erratic 
And  jarring  to  some,  but  to  others  ecstatic, 
Depending,  of  course,  on  the  idiosyncratic 
Response  of  beholders.  When  you  come  to  think  of  it, 
A  good  deal  is  demanded  by  those  on  the  brink  of  it. 
To  be  caught  in  the  skirts  of  a  whirling  afflatus 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  47 

One  must  not  suppose  is  experienced  gratis. 
Broncho-busting  with  rainbows  is  scarcely  a  game 
For  middle-aged  persons  inclined  to  the  tame. 
Likewise,  who'd  enjoy  a  sunrise  from  the  Matter- 
horn  —  something  all  travellers  agree  is  the  attar 
Of  distilled  perfection  —  must  be  ready  to  reap 
The  mid-afternoon  pangs  of  too  little  sleep. 
I  might  go  on  forever  commingling  my  metaphors, 
And  verse  by  this  means  does  undoubtedly  get  a  force, 
But  persons  who  so  air  their  fancy  are  bores, 
A  thing  every  bone  in  my  body  abhors, 
And  you'll  guess  by  this  time,  without  farther  allusion, 
That  the  lady's  unique  and  surprising  profusion 
Creates  in  some  minds  an  unhappy  confusion. 
No  one's  to  be  blamed  who's  not  something  and  twenty, 
But  it's  lucky  for  her  that  young  folk  are  so  plenty. 
The  future's  her  goose  and  I  dare  say  she'll  wing  it, 
Though  the  triumph  will  need  her  own  power  to  sing  it. 
Although  I'm  no  prophet,  I'll  hazard  a  guess 
She'll  be  rated  by  time  as  more  rather  than  less. 
Once  accustom  yourself  to  her  strange  elocution, 
And  milder  verse  seems  by  contrast  mere  dilution. 
Then  again  (for  I've  kept  back  a  very  great  part), 
Despite  her  traducers,  there's  always  a  heart 
Hid  away  in  her  poems  for  the  seeking;  impassioned, 
Beneath  silver  surfaces  cunningly  fashioned 
To  baffle  coarse  pryings,  it  waits  for  the  touch 
Of  a  man  who  takes  surfaces  only  as  such. 
Her  work's  not,  if  you  will,  for  the  glib  amateur, 
But  I  wonder,  would  it  be  improved  if  it  were? 


48  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Must  subtlety  always  be  counted  a  flaw 

And  poetry  not  poetry  which  puzzles  the  raw? 

Let  me  turn  for  an  instant  to  note  the  reverse 

Of  my  poet,  who  employs  many  manners  of  verse 

And  when  not  hurricaning's  astoundingly  terse; 

Yet  here  the  poor  creature  but  makes  matters  worse. 

There  are  plenty  of  critics  who  say  they  can't  hear 

When  she  sings  sotto  voce,  the  sensation's  queer 

And  inspires  a  species  of  horrible  fear. 

To  be  told  there's  a  sound  and  catch  nothing  at  all, 

Is  a  circumstance  fairly  designed  to  appal 

Most  casual  people,  for  here  is  the  hitch : 

The  admission  that  one's  own  ears  can't  grasp  a  pitch 

Clear  and  lovely  to  others.  Whereupon  a  bow-wow 

Which  swells  to  a  perfectly  hideous  row. 

They've  accused  her  of  every  description  of  quackery, 

Of  only  concerning  herself  with  knick-knackery, 

It  has  all  been  enough  to  set  any  one's  back  awry. 

She's  a  fool  to  resent  it,  a  man  would  have  grinned? 

Quite  so,  but  then  poets  are  created  thin-skinned, 

And  when  one  is  more  than  a  little  volcanic, 

With  a  very  strong  dash  of  the  ultra-tyrannic, 

The  retort  contentious  will  be  simply  Titanic. 

Behold,  then,  our  poet,  by  the  lash  of  atrociousness 

Goaded  into  an  attitude  much  like  ferociousness. 

Every  book  that  she  writes  has  a  preface  to  guard  it 

Which  spits  fire  and  cannon-balls,  making  each  hard 

hit 

Tell,  and  mow  down  its  swathe  of  objectors. 
But  critics  have  ever  been  good  resurrectors. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  49 

Since  she  keeps  the  fight  going,  they  rise  to  do  battle, 

When  the  whole  mess  is  only  so  much  tittle-tattle. 

So  it  goes  back  and  forth  with  the  cries  and  the  cheering, 

And  there's  no  sign  at  all  of  the  atmosphere  clearing. 

Her  books  follow  each  other  despite  all  the  riot, 

For,  oddly  enough,  there's  a  queer,  crumpled  quiet 

Perpetually  round  her,  a  crazy-quilt  tent 

Dividing  her  happily  from  the  event. 

Armed  to  the  teeth  like  an  old  Samurai, 

Juggling  with  jewels  like  the  ancient  genii, 

Hung  all  over  with  mouse-traps  of  metres,  and  cages 

Of  bright-plumaged  rhythms,  with  pages  and  pages 

Of  colours  slit  up  into  streaming  confetti 

Which  give  the  appearance  of  something  sunsetty, 

And  gorgeous,  and  flowing  —  a  curious  sight 

She  makes  in  her  progress,  a  modern  White  Knight, 

Forever  explaining  her  latest  inventions 

And  assuring  herself  of  all  wandering  attentions 

By  pausing  at  times  to  sing,  in  a  duly 

Appreciative  manner,  an  aria  from  Lully. 

The  horse  which  she  rides  will  suit  any  part 

Either  Peg  (with  the  'asus,')  or  'Peg  o'  my  heart.' 

To  avoid  making  blunders,  he's  usually  known 

Without  any  suffix  as  '  Peg '  all  alone. 

This  style  of  address  has  become  a  tradition 

Most  offendingly  silly,  since  no  erudition 

Unaided  can  ever  produce  a  magician. 

For  the  magic  she  has,  I  see  nothing  demonic 

In  the  use  of  free  verse  (the  'free'  is  quite  comic!) 

Or  even  that  mule  of  the  arts,  polyphonic. 


50  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

No  matter  what  pedants  may  find  that's  awry  in  him, 
There's  plenty  of  kick  and  plenty  of  fly  in  him. 
Taking  this  thing  and  that,  and  considering  on  it, 
I  believe  there  are  more  guesses  under  her  bonnet 
Than  in  any  two  hats  you  are  likely  to  meet 
(Straw  or  felt,  take  your  choice,  so  the  shape  be  dis- 
creet, 
Not  too  flap-brimmed  and  weird,  nor  too  jaunty  and 

neat) 

In  any  particular  city  or  street 

You  may  happen  to  pick.  Note,  I  only  say  questions, 
Which  leaves  the  mind  open  to  many  suggestions, 
Up  or  down,  there's  the  rub.  (The  mere  matter  of 

hats 

Is  too  nice,  by  the  way,  to  be  dealt  with  as  'Rats!' 
There's  a  temperature  here  which  the  best  thermostats 
Could  not  regulate  better.  We're  all  diplomats 
Now  the  'Arrys  have  ousted  the  aris-tocrats.) " 

I  looked  at  my  friend,  his  face  was  averted. 

"You  make  it  quite  clear  why  we  are  deserted, 

Old  men  are  tough  customers.   Now,  as  a  foil, 

Give  me  something  as  smooth  and  slow-running  as  oil, 

Something  clear,  uncontentious,  it  even  may  be 

A  bit  chilly  in  beauty  perhaps."   " There's  'H.  D.,'" 

I  was  tempted  to  shout,  she  fitted  so  rightly 

His  immediate  preference :  frost  falling  lightly 

In  delicate  patterns  on  thin  blades  of  grass. 

(Since  oil  does  not  fit,  I  let  that  figure  pass, 

Though  it  did  well  enough  up  above  where  it  was.) 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  51 

"This  author's  become  a  species  of  fable 

For  she  masks  her  identity  under  a  label. 

If  others  have  ancestors,  she  would  forget  hers 

And  appear  the  spontaneous  child  of  two  letters, 

The  printing  of  which  is  the  bane  of  type-setters.     . 

They  have  called  her  a  dryad  just  stepped  from  a  bosk, 

But  I  see  an  ice  maiden  within  an  ice  kiosk, 

With  icicle  stalactites  hanging  around  her, 

And  the  violets  frozen  with  which  they  have  crowned 

her  — 

The  man  who  would  filch  them  would  be  an  icebounder, 
Which  I  surely  am  not.   If  each  lovely,  veined  petal 
Becomes  by  the  contact  a  trifle  too  brittle 
And  cold  to  give  out  its  usual  warm  scent, 
They  make  it  up  amply  by  such  dazzlement 
Of  sun-shot-through-ice  that  the  shine  of  her  shrine 
Seems  the  sky-piercing  glitter  of  some  Apennine. 
I  have  told  you  before  that  my  mind  teems  with  sim- 
iles. 

It's  a  shocking  bad  habit  persists  in  some  families, 
I've  an  uncle  —  but  there,  I  spread  out  like  a  runnel, 
When  I  should  flow  as  straight  as  though  poured 

through  a  funnel. 

So  take  this  digression  in  the  light  of  an  interlude 
Leading  up  to  a  change  which  I  wish  to  obtrude 
On  the  form  of  my  speech,  for  I  find  I  am  freezing 
Before  the  remarkably  chilly,  though  pleasing, 
Ice  image  I've  painted,  and  soon  shall  be  sneezing. 
My  Muse  must  immediately  seek  out  a  clime 
Where  her  trippings  and  Sittings  are  not  above  rime, 


52  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Or  dew  that  is  duly  congealed,  or  hoar-frost. 

I'm  indifferent  to  science,  so  the  meaning  be  tossed 

Into  some  sort  of  shape  which   fits   well  with  my 

pattern, 

For,  whatever  the  faults  of  said  Muse,  she's  no  slattern. 
My  verse,  I'll  allow,  is  the  species  fantastic, 
I've  been  epris  for  years  of  the  style  Hudibrastic, 
But  my  rhyming  morale  is,  I  trust,  inelastic. 
Which  preamble  means  I  have  searched  for  a  week 
To  rouse  neither  my  Muse's  nor  heroine's  pique 
In  the  matter  of  climate.  I've  found  it  in  Greek. 
*H.  D.'  (for  it's  time  we  got  back  to  the  girl) 
Might  be  some  ancient  mirror,  with  mother-of-pearl 
Let  into  its  metal,  a  thing  which  a  nation 
Deems  well  worth  the  cost  of  its  own  exhumation, 
A  prize  to  count  up  to  the  whole  excavation. 
This  mirror,  which  carries  the  breath  of  the  past 
On  its  scarcely  stained  surface,  is  no  scholiast, 
But  a  living  replica  of  what  once  was  living 
At  the  touch  of  a  rare  adoration  reviving. 
Here  youths  in  scant   armour,   on  the  way  to  the 

galleys, 

Woo  maidens  in  dark  ilex-groves;  in  the  valleys, 
Anemone-sprinkled,  young  shepherds  guard  flocks 
Clad  in  ram's  fleeces  only;  above  the  sharp  rocks 
Jutting  into  the  purple  Ionian  sea 
Are  the  white,  fluted  columns  of —  Fiddle-de-dee! 
Such  lyrical  bursts  in  a  mere  jeu  $  esprit 
Are  like  brandy  poured  into  a  cup  of  bohea, 
A  transaction  called  '  lacing '  in  old  days,  on  dit. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  53 

I  can't  say  for  myself,  being  no  devotee 
Of  either  diluted  or  straight  eau-de-vie, 
And  the  eighteenth  amendment  is  nothing  to  me. 
Still,  I  don't  like  a  law  couched  in  hyperbole, 
It  gets  any  one's  goat.  To  return  to  *H.  D.,' 
Whom  I've  really  kept  waiting  most  outrageously, 
She's  the  thing  as  it  was,  not  the  thing  we  have  made  it 
And  with  insolent  ornament  quite  overlaid  it. 
She  descends  to  no  commonplace,  flock-guarding  shep- 
herds. 

No  pompous  Victorian  gush  ever  jeopards 
Her  reticent,  finely-drawn  line.   No  Greek  marble 
Has  less  of  the  pueril  and  less  of  the  garble. 
Her  sea  is  the  sea  of  a  child  or  a  Neriad, 
And  yet  no  false  word  lifts  it  out  of  its  period. 
Her  flowers  of  shore  and  of  cliff  those  we  seek 
On  our  cliffs  and  our  shores,  but  hers  somehow  are 

Greek. 

Her  poems  are  excitement  and  rest,  and  the  glory 
Of  living  a  life  and  not  reading  a  story. 
Archaeology?  Yes,  in  the  very  same  way 
That  geology's  the  mountain  we  climb  every  day. 
The  armour  she  welds,  the  dyed  cloth  she  weaves, 
Are  so  perfect  in  artistry,  every  word  cleaves 
To  the  substance  as  though  that  would  crackle  without 

it 
And  split.    Read  her  books  (there  are  two)  if  you 

doubt  it. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  this  quintessence  of  Greece 
Is  the  wool  on  a  century -garlanded  fleece ; 


54  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Underneath  is,  and  was,  a  tough  fibre  of  leather. 
Is  the  Greece  she  has  given  us  Greece  altogether? 
As  well  might  one  ask  if  the  youth  of  Praxiteles 
Is  an  everyday  chap  or  a  scheme  to  belittle  ease 
By  exalting  the  sharp  line  of  young  masculinity. 
In  her  method  and  his  is  there  not  some  affinity? 
Each  sheers  to  the  soul,  to  the  base  of  a  nemesis, 
And  the  hard,  glancing  residue  is  the  ultimate  genesis. 
For  out  of  the  past  is  the  future;  a  truism, 
You  must  pardon,  since  man  has  invented  no  new 


'ism 


Since  the  days  of  the  cavemen.    I  wish  merely  to 

prove 

That  this  most  modern  poet  runs  along  an  old  groove, 
That  the  erudite  novelties  filling  her  pages 
Are  as  old  as  this  morning  and  as  new  as  the  ages." 

Here  a  voice  interrupted  my  long  peroration, 
Speaking,  I  detected,  in  some  irritation. 
"I  think,"  it  announced,  " though  I  may  be  mistaken, 
There's  a  poet  whom  you've  not  mentioned  yet,  Con- 
rad Aiken."  ;  ^ 
Such  an  ill -governed  mind  as  I  Ve  got,  and  the  porter 
Never  keeps  out  intruders  who  call,  as  he  ought  to. 
(That  rhyme  will  be  cursed  as  "a  regular  snorter" 
By  every  stand-pat,  Tennysonian  supporter. 
I  am  sorry  myself  to  be  forced  to  distort  a 
Fine  line  unduly,  and  if  I  or  my  thought  err 
I  am  willing  to  own  it  without  -the  least  hauteur. 
I  rhyme  as  I  can,  and  am  never  a  courter 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  55 

For  all  suffrages.)   The  doorman,  I  said, 

Who,  between  you  and  me,  is  a  crass  dunderhead, 

Had  let  this  extremely  irascible  gentleman 

Pass  through  the  door,  and  of  course  he  began 

At  once  to  upbraid  me.   It's  the  method  he  uses 

To  force  himself  into  the  sight  of  the  Muses. 

"Young  man,"  I  replied  with  some  heat,  "you  mistake 

My  preoccupation.   If  you  wish  to  make 

Your  entrance  at  once  with  the  ladies,  I'll  see  to  it, 

But  I  should  have  supposed  you'd  immediately  veto 

it." 
This  was  rather  a  staggerer,  to  be  grouped  with  the 

women 

Would  tax  the  endurance  of  any  male  human; 
Yet  to  wait  any  longer,  when  I  might  be  weary 
Before  his  turn  came,  did  not  strike  him  as  cheery. 
He  puffed   and  he  fumed,  with   pride  pulling  both 

ways ; 

It  was  pitiable  to  see  the  poor  fellow's  malaise. 
But  finally,  with  a  great  bluffing  of  chivalry, 
He  declared  he  had  no  sort  of  feeling  of  rivalry 
Against  the  fair  sex  who  adorned  his  profession. 
A  very  neat  way,  this,  to  blur  a  confession, 
For  the  long  and  the  short  of  it  was  he'd  go  on 
The  carpet  at  once,  if  I  pleased.  Thereupon 
I  hastily  made  my  excuses  to  one 
Or  two  ladies  I'd  meant  to  have  been  next  presented. 
Being  sensible  persons,  they  seemed  quite  contented. 
Perhaps  'twas  as  well,  for  I'd  rather  a  hunch 
The  irascible  poet  might  make  good  with  his  "  Punch" 


56  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

And  land  me  that  terrible  "one  on  the  jaw," 

When  I'm  sure  I  should  "measure  my  length"  in  the 

straw. 

It  will  clearly  be  seen  that  my  anxious  perusal 
Of  a  recent  combat  has  done  much  to  bamboozle 
The  erstwhile  classic  grace  of  my  natural  diction. 
You  see  I  obeyed  a  strong  predilection 
In  Carpentier's  favour  to  the  tune  of  a  tenner 
And,  with  other  good  sportsmen,  I  found  my  Gehenna. 
"Mr.  Aiken's  a  poet  so  cram  full  of  knowledge 
He  knows  all  about  poetry  that's  taught  in  a  college. 
His  versification's  as  neat  as  a  pin, 
His  metre  so  fine  it  becomes  finikin. 
I  say  nothing  of  rhythm,  for  he's  something  fanatical 
Anent  the  advantage  of  the  beat  mathematical. 
Within  his  set  limits,  the  pulse  of  his  verse 
Is  often  most  subtle,  and  even  his  worse 
Attempts  are  by  no  means  either  jejune  or  lacking 
In  form,  one  can  hardly  imagine  him  slacking 
In  pains  or  desire.   He's  all  that  a  poet 
Can  make  of  himself  when  he  sets  out  to  do  it 
With  his  heart,  and  his  soul,  and  his  strength,  and  his 

mind. 

For  years  now,  he's  had  a  most  horrible  grind 
With  his  work,  with  the  public,  but  what  stands  in  his 

way 

Is  the  awkward  necessity  of  something  to  say. 
A  man  of  sensations,  of  difficult  cheerfulness 
Which  the  fog  in  his  brain  has  tormented  to  fearful- 
ness, 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  57 

Possessed  of  much  music  and  little  idea, 

Always  steeping  his  soul  in  the  strange  undersphere 

Of  the  brain.  Since  all  thought  in  him  tends  to  grow 

hazy 

When  his  sentiment's  roused,  he  is  lost  in  a  mazy 
Vortex  where  he  swings  like  some  pale  asteroid. 
Seeking  orientation,  he's  stumbled  on  Freud. 
With  the  Austrian's  assistance,  he's  become  neurologi- 

cal, 

A  terrible  fate  to  befall  the  illogical. 
Being  born  with  an  ultra-sensitive  cuticle, 
We  must  realize  his  verse  in  a  sense  therapeutical. 
If  he  doesn't  quite  state  any  fact,  his  oblique 
Side-glances  at  subjects  are  just  hide-and-seek 
He's  playing  with  all  his  frustrated  ambitions 
And  gaining,  thereby,  some  vicarious  fruitions. 
He's  so  young  as  to  think  that  he  proves  his  maturity 
By  boldly  colliding  with  all  sorts  of  impurity. 
His  ladies  are,  most  of  them,  a  little  bit  dusty, 
But  we're  learning  to  think  any  other  kind  musty. 
The  true  modern  artist  would  face  destitution 
Were  it  not  for  that  universe-wide  institution 
Plain  people  frown  down  on  and  call  prostitution. 
No  matter  how  shopworn  the  plots  he  has  made, 
They  will  always  pass  muster  if  he  mentions  a  spade. 
At  least  this  is  true  with  that  type  of  Bohemia 
Which  is  not  yet  aware  that  such  art  spells  anaemia. 
Not  so  Aiken  —  his  brothels,  street-walkers,  dope- 
eaters 
Are  merely  the  web  he  weaves  over  with  metres. 


58  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

He  uses  them  chiefly  because  they  are  easy 

And  sure  to  produce  an  effect  on  the  queasy. 

For  more  than  all  else  he  dreads  falling  flat; 

The  fear  of  it  teases  his  brain  like  a  gnat. 

He  would  rather  be  called  wicked,  incomprehensible, 

Anything,  so  long  as  the  world's  not  insensible. 

In  his  anxious  desire  to  escape  being  tepid, 

He  makes  too  great  a  show  of  the  over-intrepid, 

But  his  real  interest  lies  in  quite  other  directions: 

In  noting  the  faintest  of  fleeting  reflections 

In  tone  or  in  colour;  in  catching  the  magic 

Of  words  against  words;  and  it  simply  is  tragic 

How  few  apprehend  his  remarkable  quality. 

But  was  ever  a  public  more  lost  in  frivolity 

Than  ours?  It  cannot  tell  feathers  from  lead 

Till  you  hit  it  a  crack  with  the  last  on  the  head. 

His  volumes  are  filled  with  a  sea-green  miasma 

Shot  and  sprinkled  throughout  with  the  grotesque 

phantasma 

Of  an  egoist's  brain,  or  a  man's  when  he's  sleepy. 
They  revolve  unrelated  and  sink  into  creepy 
Sight  and  sound  mutterings,  yet  sometimes  so  vivid 
They  are  that  they  seem  to  stand  out  in  a  livid 
And  flaming  protrusion.    Take,  for  instance,  the  scene 
Of  his  satyrs  and  maenads,  which  is  white  striped  on 

green, 

With  red,  sudden  explosions.    Sometimes,  more  sur- 
prising, 

The  fog  lifts  a  moment  before  a  sun  rising 
As  clear  and  as  thin  as  though  painted  on  china 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  59 

By  some  eighteenth  century  Dresden  designer. 

His  sordid  back  rooms  disappear  and  the  groans 

Of  dying  dope-fiends,  and  we  hear  '  three  clear  tones/ 

The  tones  of  his  bird  in  the  china-berry  tree. 

What  a  mercy  that  such  a  tree  happened  to  be ! 

Otherwise,  I  believe,  he  must  have  invented  it. 

Never  mind,  here  it  is,  and  he's  simply  cemented  it 

On  the  botany  of  poetry  for  ever  and  ever. 

I  say  that  superbly,  without  the  least  quiver. 

If  the  rest  of  his  work's  neither  Saint  Paul's  nor  Krem- 

len, 

He's  built  a  basilica  surely  in  'Senlin.'  " 
At  least  in  that  '  Morning  Song,'  which,  until  lately,. 
Was  the  sole,  single  fragment  he'd  done  adequately. 
Till  'Punch,'  ah!  with  'Punch'  now,  he  should  achieve 

fame, 
But  there's  nothing  so  dogging  as  a  once-come-by 

name. 

If  this  were  his  first,  he'd  be  up  like  a  rocket, 
Now  I  think  he'll  burn  steadily  on  in  his  socket 
Making  beautiful  poems  though   the  public  won't 

stand  'em 

Because  he  can't  drive  style  and  tale  in  a  tandem. 
Since  the  books  as  they  are  stick  so  hard  in  the  gizzard, 
The  sensible  thing  is  to  have  each  one  scissored. 
Cut  out  from  each  volume  the  one  or  two  scraps 
You  might  like  on  a  third  or  fourth  reading  perhaps; 
Paste  them  into  a  scrap-book,  and  some  rainy  day 
Just  glance  over  the  lot  and  I  think  you  will  say: 
'By  Jove!  What  a  fellow  he  is  in  his  way!' 


60  .  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

And  I'll  thank  you  for  that  as  a  true  leaf  of  bay. 
If  he,  the  arch-sceptic,  finds  other  folk  doubting, 
He  makes  a  mistake  to  be  seen  always  pouting. 
He  has  not  his  deserts,  yet  to  publish  the  fact 
Is  a  childish  and  most  unintelligent  act, 
But  every  one  knows  he's  deficient  in  tact. 
A  man  who  can  work  with  such  utter  devotion 
Can  afford  to  wait  patiently  for  his  promotion, 
And  that  it  will  come,  I've  a  very  strong  notion. 
One  thing  we  can  say,  he  will  certainly  wait 
And  either  get  in  or  turn  dust  at  the  gate. 
Since  Fame  is  a  very  good  hand  at  the  shears, 
I  shall  not  be  surprised  if  he  gets  his  arrears, 
For  quality  counts  in  the  long  run  of  years." 
I  turned  to  the  shade  in  my  mind,  but  unused 
To  listening  with  patience,  the^thing  had  vamoosed. 

Not  so  my  old  friend,  he  was  listening  intensely, 
And  as  I  stopped  speaking,  he  said,  "I'm  immensely 
Intrigued  by  that  man,  he's  a  curious  fellow. 
Too  bad  he's  permitted  himself  to  see  yellow. 
A  jaundiced  perspective's  a  great  handicap. 
Well,  what  other  poets  have  you  got  in  your  lap? 
I  commend  you,  young  man,  as  an  excellent  etcher." 
"The  next  I  shall  notice  will  be  John  Gould  Fletcher," 
I  answered,  "but  before  I  begin  my  narration 
Don't  think\  if  you  can,  see  an  irradiation 
Spreading  out  over  roofs,  over  trees,  over  sky, 
The  gold  screen  of  a  moment,  on  which  you  descry 
Such  oddments  as  heaps  of  'vermilion  pavilions' 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  61 

And  Gabriel's  angels  all  riding  on  pillions 

On  the  backs  of  cloud  horses,  blowing  trumpets  of 

thunder, 

Above  forests  of  elephant  trees  standing  under 
The  precipitous  cone  of  some  steep  afternoon. 
The  whirling  wind  *  screams,'  the  stars  *  shrill,'  the 

streets  croon. 

A  cataract  of  music  swirls  out  of  the  throats 
Of  the  long  scarlet  trumpets,  the  prismatic  notes 
Sweep  over  the  city  like  sun-spray  and  laughter, 
Embroidered  with  all  colours .  .  .  Then  what  comes 

after? 

More  colours,  a  rain  of  them,  hanging,  delaying, 
To  sprinkle  cool  'jade  balustrades'  with  their  staying. 
Golden  flakes,  silver  filaments,  what  pandemonium ! 
The  rainbow  joined  in  wedlock  to  a  bursting  harmo- 
nium. 

Elephantine  surrenders,  prodigious  relapses, 
Speech  turned  to  a  fire-ball  which  soars  and  collapses 
And  spills  down  its  words  like  the  whole  spectrum  fall- 
ing 

In  a  broken  excitement*  My  eye,  it's  appalling! 
Such  a  chaotic  shooting  and  drifting  of  particles, 
Mere  loveliness  solus,  not  stuck  tight  to  articles, 
For  what  it  all  means  does  not  matter  a  jot; 
You  are  filled  with  delight  at  it,  or  you  are  not. 
But  suppose  that  you  weary  of  the  polychromatic  — 
Some  natures,  I  realize,  are  far  too  lymphatic 
To  derive  any  pleasure  from  what  is  not  static  — 
There  are  corners  to  rest  in  with  fountains,  and  grass 


62  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Streaming  up  in  long  slopes,  and  if  you  should  pass 
Just  over  the  hill,  there's  a  house  where  each  column 
Is  wreathed  and  entangled  with  the  half-gay,  half- 
solemn 

Recollections  of  childhood.  There  you  can  eat  lunch- 
eon, 

And  drink  slow  well-water  from  some  old  grey  punch- 
eon, 

And  listen  to  tales  of  hobgoblins  and  genie 
Till  I  venture  to  say  you'll  be  a  bit  spleeny 
And  welcome  the  rising  of  white-faced  Selene. 
(Rather  pretty,  that  last,  such  touches  do  garnish 
One's  writing,  I  think,  and  I'm  not  above  varnish. 
I  like  a  bright  lustre  in  poems  or  medallions, 
The  polish  one  sees  in  the  later  Italians. 
Here  a  friend  who's  dropped  in  says  I've  mixed  my 

mythology. 

Such  a  slip,  if  I've  made  it,  deserves  an  apology: 
Selene,  Cybele,  Diana  —  I  care 

Not  at  all  for  mere  names.  You  may  take  Lempriere 
And  choose  any  Goddess  you  think  opportune 
So  you  quite  understand  I  refer  to  the  moon.) 
As  you  sit  in  the  moonlight,  the  gist  of  your  sum- 
mary 

Will  be:  Here  at  last,  is  a  poet  without  flummery. 
A  score  or  two  words  are  his  total  of  plunder, 
But  the  whole  is  a  boyhood  imprisoned  in  wonder. 
A  boy,  and  the  things  all  about  him  —  plain  stuff, 
And  not  even  new,  but  the  measure's  enough. 
Not  the  kind  which  they  want  for  a  penny-a-liner; 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  63 

It's  too  sharp,  and  too  sheer,  but  for  that  all  the 

finer.    < 

Have  you  ever  gone  into  a  dim,  disused  attic 
And  poked  about  there  among  the  erratic 
Remains  of  worn  toys,  legless  soldiers,  chipped  blocks, 
And  suddenly  come  on  an  old  music-box? 
As  you  twist  round  the  handle,  the  notes  seem  to 

squeeze 
Through  the  dust,  some  are  lost  and  the  rest  choke  and 

wheeze, 
But  you  make  out  a  tune,  and  the  mere  broken  hint 

of  it 

Is  the  agonized  joy  of  remembrance,  by  dint  of  it 
You  suffer  and  love  with  an  ache  you'd  forgotten. 
It  were  wiser,  perhaps,  were  your  ears  stuffed  with  cot- 
ton. 

So  Fletcher's  not  only  the  rainbow  in  spate, 
He's  the  soul  of  a  music-box  which  can  create 
All  our  childhood  again.   If  the  tune's  a  bit  scrappy, 
What's  the  odds,  just  so  long  as  the  sound  makes  us 

happy? 

So  far,  Mr.  Fletcher,  for  that's  only  a  mood, 
We'll  not  whistle  until  we  are  out  of  the  wood. 
Were  your  publishers  mad,  or  why  bind  together 
Your  'Old  House'  and  'Symphonies'?   One  wonders 

whether 

You  were  bent  on  emptying  out  your  portfolio. 
You  created,  at  any  rate,  quite  an  imbroglio. 
This  break-up  of  feeling  with  one  or  two  vile  hacks 
Of  discord  is  as  jarring  as  gumdrops  and  smilax 


64  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Giving  suddenly  place  to  red-peppers  and  asters. 

The  symphonies,  come  on  this  way,  call  for  plasters. 

This  arrangement,  indeed,  was  the  worst  of  disasters. 

Up  bright  in  the  morning,  shoes  tied  and  hair  brushed, 

On  a  Sunday,  maybe,  when  you're  not  too  much 
rushed, 

You  can  seek  ancient  China  in  Symphony  Blue; 

Or,  if  you  prefer,  you  may  take  a  stroll  through 

Any  Spring,  in  the  Green ;  you  may  sail  over  oceans 

With  the  Red  glare  of  stoke-holes  to  thrill  your  emo- 
tions; 

You  may  fight  in  the  Scarlet,  and  laugh  in  the  Yel- 
low, 

You  may  do  what  you  please  in  the  Gold.  A  fine  fel- 
low 

Whose  palette  is  full  if  a  little  bit  messy. 

But  you  have  a  good  deal  of  the  world  here  in  esse. 

At  least,  you  would  have,  were  it  not  for  a  doubt 

About  what  any  symphony's  really  about. 

He  writes,  it  appears,  in  a  prismatic  spasm ; 

This  phase  of  his  work  is  complete  protoplasm. 

He  is  whirling  his  atoms  before  quite  cohering  them, 

But  there's  no  doubt  at  all  that  he  soon  will  be  steering 
them. 

Yet,  hold  on  a  bit,  my  dear  chap,  do  you  think 

You  can  set  all  America  down  in  cold  ink? 

Here  you  are,  aeroplaning  from  Boston  to  Texas,   ,  f. 

And  taking  snapshots  as  you  fly  to  perplex  us. 

If  you  see  a  sky-scraper,  down  it  goes,  and  the  next 

Shot's  a  square  of  Chicago  —  fit  it  into  the  text. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  65 

Joggle  niggers  and  Mexicans,  some  of  them  dead 

'uns, 

And  for  spirit,  bring  in  a  few  battles  where  reddens 
The  smoke  of  proud  guns,  for  your  richest  of  gravies 
Is  the  sauce  of  Bull  Run  and  the  bier  of  Jeff  Davis. 
You've  done  it,  my  cock,  as  well  as  a  man 
Who  is  chiefly  the  slave  of  his  sensations  can; 
For  somehow  your  genius  has  a  habit  of  shying 
Whenever  your  heart  is  involved.   It's  most  trying. 
You  can  work  yourself  up  to  a  towering  passion 
Over  landscapes  and  peoples,  but  when  you  would 

fashion 

A  love  lyric —  Puff!  and  the  substance  dissolves 
And  melts  out  of  your  fingers.  A  thousand  resolves 
To  break  through  with  yourself,  to  have  done  with  ob- 
jectives, 

Leave  you  still  where  you  were,  exploring  perspectives. 
I  declare  I  could  weep,  did  I  not  know  that  life 
Is  only  achieved  through  a  vast  deal  of  strife. 
You  stand  in  the  midst  of  a  cosmic  heterogeny, 
But  I  do  not  despair  of  your  rearing  a  progeny. 
If  chaos  at  last  jelled  into  a  man, 
What  a  big  chaos  did,  your  small  chaos  can. 
You  were  built,  you  perceive,  as  the  first  of  your 

clan. 

And,  whatever  you  want,  you've  got  what  no  other 
Poet  ever  has  had.  So  a  truce  to  the  pother! 
Bless  the  man/  you've  done  something  as  new  as  to- 
morrow, 
And  I  cannot  consider -your  case  with  much  sorrow. 


66  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Just  wait'! . .  But,  most  gently,  my  old  friend  inter- 
rupted, 

"Don't  go  on,  Sir,  I  beg,  I  am  being  corrupted. 

Your  poets  are  so  diverse.  One  thing  I  can  say, 

Good  or  bad,  they're  more  various  than  poets  were  in 
my  day. 

If  you've  more  in  your  bag,  produce  them,  I  pray." 

Thus  adjured,  I  remembered  the  one  or  two  ladies 
I'd  deserted,  and  mentally  crying  "Oh,  Hades! 
Will  they  be  mad  as  hops  or  affect  a  quite  staid  ease? 
Whichever  it  is,  I  shall  get  a  good  wigging, 
To  be  kept  waiting's  always  a  bit  infra  digging. 
I  must  cudgel  my  brain  for  a  really  apt  whopper, 
Women   don't  pardon   blunders  when   their  amour 

propre 

Is  in  question."  But  all  of  the  chickens  I'd  counted, 
When  I'd  tallied  them  up  to  a  total,  amounted 
To  just  nothing  at  all,  for  your  modern  Egeria 
Is  far  too  advanced  to  give  way  to  hysteria. 
Approaching  the  first,  I  said  no  woman  like  her 
Had  yet  been  considered.  She  replied  "Oh,  you  piker! 
A  poet  learns  to  see,  and  you  need  not  dissemble. 
We  will  go  up  at  once.   Grace,  here  is  your  thimble." 
Then  jumping  up  quickly  from  where  she  was  sitting 
She  quite  overturned  a  little  girl's  knitting 
Who  was  there  by  some  chance,  I'll  come  back  to  that 

later. 

Said  I  to  myself,  no  man  living  can  hate  her, 
She  is  what  I  should  call  a  born  fascinator. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  67 

Upon  reaching  my  friend  —  and  let  me  explain 
That  these  scenes  in  the  scene  all  take  place  in  my 

brain  — 

I  began  with  a  few  neatly  turned  words  on  love 
As  the  poet's  own  bourne,  and  declared  that  no  glove 
Ever  fitted  a  hand  with  less  wrinkling  and  snugger 
Than  this  theme  this  poet.   Here  I  noticed  her  shrug 

her 

Shoulders  a  little,  which  was  rather  upsetting. 
However,  it  may  have  been  only  coquetting. 
Still  I  thought  it  was  wise  to  get  on  with  my  tale : 
"Our  love-poet,  par  excellence,  Sara  Teasdale," 
I  said  with  a  flourish.   Now  that  was  a  whale 
Of  a  compliment,  such  things  deserve  an  entail, 
'Twas  so  brilliantly  super  even  if  it  were  true, 
And  I  knew  very  well  'twas  but  one  of  a  cue. 
"This  poet,"  I  went  on,  "is  a  great  niece  of  Sapho, 
I  know  not  how  many  ' greats'  laid  in  a  row 
There  should  be,  but  her  pedigree's  perfectly  clear; 
You  can  read  it  in  '  Magazine  Verse'  for  the  year. 
She  is  also  a  cousin,  a  few  times  removed, 
Of  dear  Mrs.  Browning,  that  last  can  be  proved. 
The  elder  poet  hid  in  a  shrouding  mantilla 
Which  she  called  Portuguese.  Was  ever  trick  sillier? 
Our  Sara  is  bolder,  and  feels  quite  at  ease 
As  herself;  in  her  mind  there  is  nothing  to  tease. 
Dale  and  valley,  the  country  is  hers  she  traverses, 
She  has  mapped  it  all  out  in  a  bushel  of  verses. 
Sara  Teasdale  she  is  —  was  —  for  our  minnesinger, 
Behind  her  front  door,  is  now  Mrs.  Filsinger. 


68  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

A  hard  question  this,  for  a  hand-maid  of  Muses, 
When  she's  once  made  a  name  in  cold  print  which  she 

loses 

On  taking  a  husband,  the  law's  masculinity 
Would  seem  to  demand  a  perpetual  virginity 
For  all  married  poets  of  the  down-trodden  sex. 
To  forfeit  the  sale  of  a  new  volume  checks 
Even  marital  ardour,  to  say  nothing  of  cheques. 
It's  just  this  sort  of  thing  which  so  frequently  wrecks 
The  artistic  composure,  and  must  surely  perplex 
Any  husband  who's  not  in  the  class  of  henpecks. 
Still  I  think  the  poor  man  should  find  some  consola- 
tion 

In  two  or  three  volumes  of  sheer  adoration. 
It's  the  price  he  receives  for  never  imposing 
Himself  on  his  wife  when  the  lady's  composing. 
Under  whatever  name,  the  world  grows  awarer 
Every  year  of  the  prize  we  have  got  here  in  Sara. 
She  has  no  colours,  no  trumpets,  no  platforms,  no 

scepticisms, 
She  has  no  taste  for  experiments,  and  joins  in  no 

schisms; 

She  just  sings  like  a  bird,  and  I  think  you'll  agree 
This  is  clearly  the  place  for  the  china-berry  tree  — 
With  a  difference,  the  bird  in  that  pleasant,  arboreal 
Importation  had  three  tones,  while  her  repertorial 
Range  is  compassed  in  one,  the  reflex  amatorial. 
She  loves  in  a  charming,  perpetual  way, 
As  though  it  just  came  when  she  was  distrait, 
Or  quite  occupied  in  affairs  of  the  day. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  69 

Or  else,  and  I  think  the  remark's  more  acute, 

She  lives  as  the  flower  above  a  deep  root. 

Like  a  dedicate  nun,  she  tells  bead  after  bead 

At  Matins,  Tierce,  Vespers.  You'd  think  she'd  be  treed 

Just  once  in  a  while  to  find  something  to  say. 

Not  at  all,  she's  a  vast  catalogue  raisonnee 

Of  the  subject.  No  one's  so  completely  au  fait. 

Her  poetry  succeeds,  in  spite  of  fragility, 

Because  of  her  very  remarkable  agility. 

There  is  no  single  stunt  in  the  style  amatory 

Which  is  not  included  in  her  category, 

We  may  as  well  take  that  at  once  a  priori. 

So  easy  to  her  seems  the  work  of  creation 

She  might  be  just  jotting  down  lines  from  dictation. 

There  is  nothing  green  here,  each  poem's  of  the  ripest. 

The  income  tax  lists  her  as  Cupid's  own  typist. 

Of  course,  it  is  true  that  she's  not  intellectual, 

But  those  poets  who  are,  are  so  apt  to  subject  you  all 

To  theories  and  treatises,  the  whole  galvanometry 

Of  the  bardling  who  thinks  verse  a  sort  of  geometry. 

Now  Sara's  as  easy  to  read  as  a  slip 

On  a  piece  of  banana,  and  there's  no  need  to  skip, 

For  each  poem's  so  peculiarly  like  every  other 

You  may  as  well  stay  where  you  are  and  not  bother. 

She's  that  very  rare  compost,  the  dainty  erotic; 

Such  a  mixture  can't  fail  to  produce  a  hypnotic 

Effect  on  the  reader,  whose  keenest  sensation 

Will  consist  in  a  perfect  identification 

Of  himself  with  the  poet,  and  her  sorrows  and  j.oys 

Become  his,  while  he  swings  to  the  delicate  poise 


70  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Of  a  primitive  passion  so  nicely  refined 

It  could  not  bring  a  blush  to  the  most  squeamish 

mind. 

Though  the  poems,  I  may  add,  are  all  interlined 
For  the  ready  perusal  of  those  not  too  blind. 
For  Sara,  if  singer,  is  also  a  woman, 
I  know  of  no  creature  more  thoroughly  human. 
If  woman,  she's  also  a  lady  who  realizes 
That  a  hidden  surprise  is  the  best  of  surprises. 
She  seems  a  white  statue  awaiting  unveiling, 
But  raised  on  a  platform  behind  a  stout  railing 
Whence  she  lures  and  retires,  provoking  a  nearer 
Contact  which  is  promised  to  be  even  dearer 
If  we  find  we  have  courage  enough  not  to  fear  her." 
I  looked  at  my  subject  to  find  she'd  departed, 
It's  a  habit  of  hers  when  a  party's  once  started 
To  vanish  unnoticed.   My  poetess  had  flown. 
Seeing  which,  I  remarked  that  I'd  better  postpone 
The  rest  of  my  discourse.   "I  think  you  have  shown 
The  outlines  at  least,  my  young  cicerone," 
Said  my  friend.  "Have  you  others?  I  see  the  sun's  set- 
ting. 

If  you  have  many  more,  why  we  must  be  getting 
On  faster."   I  promised  to  use  all  despatch 
Which  I  saw  was  most  needed  when  I  took  out  my 
watch. 

"  There's  a  child  here  I've  not  yet  had  leisure  to  men- 
tion, 
Both  she  and  her  mother  are  worth  your  attention. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  71 

And  one  or  two  more  I  can  think  of,  but  most  of  them 
Will  not  take  up  much  time.  After  that,  there's  a  host 

of  them 

We'll  consider,  if  you  are  agreeable,  en  masse.19' 
"You  spoke  of  a  child,  a  child  in  this  class!" 
He   asked   me  astonished.   "I  suppose  that  betrays 

me 

A  fogey  indeed,  but  the  thing  does  amaze  me." 
"No  wonder,"  I  answered,  "America's  youth 
Symbolized  with  a  vengeance  as  plainest  of  truth. 
The  poets  I've  presented  may  none  of  them  be 
Among  the  top  boughs  of  that  flourishing  tree, 
The  Genus  Poeticus,  Anglice-folia, 
Whose  flowers  have  rivalled  the  greater  magnolia, 
But  no  shoot  we  know  of  has  blossomed  so  early 
As  ours,  and  that  makes  a  distinction  clearly. 
A  ten-year-old  child,  half  elf  and  half  sage, 
Where  else  can  you  find  a  poet  of  her  age? 
This  is  no  little  girl,  though  the  critics  preempt  her 
As  the  essence  of  childhood,  but,  caveat  emptor\ 
It  is  easy  to  say,  which  is  all  that  they  care  about, 
For  where  is  the  critic  one  can  see  is  aware  about 
Any  essence  whatever.  This  child's  no  more  childhood 
Than  the  wolf  was  the  grandmother  for  donning  her 

mild  hood. 

Hilda  Conkling  (I  see  I've  forgotten  to  name  her) 
Is  a  greater  phenomenon  than  they  would  proclaim 

her. 

She  is  poetry  itself,  for  her  slight  little  soul 
Is  not  yet  of  a  size  to  encompass  the  whole 


72  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

She  gives  out.  Without  knowing  who  really  is  speaking, 
She  speaks,  and  her  words  fall  without  the  least  seek- 
ing. 
There's  no  need  for  allowances,  the  poems  that  she 

writes 

May  be  certainly  reckoned  among  the  high  lights 
Of  their  genre,  and  although  I'm  no  hyperbolist 
I  say  flatly  this  child  is  the  first  Imagist. 
But  you  will  remember  that  Jove  sometimes  naps, 
And  the  baby  in  Hilda  not  seldom  entraps 
The  genius.   But  what  of  that!  Such  handicaps 
May  be  reckoned  as  nil  in  the  total,  perhaps. 
If  she  sometimes  descends  from  Parnassus  crescendo 
To  play  with  her  dolls,  why,  the  greatest  of  men  do 
The  same  in  their  fashion,  and  no  innuendo 
Need  follow  so  natural  a  way  of  proceeding. 
It  is  merely  the  little  girl  in  her  stampeding. 
Since   she's   neither   a   freak,   nor   a   ghoul,   nor   a 

Houyhnhnm, 
We  may  thank  the  good  fate  which  has  left  her  a 

minim 

Of  usual  childhood  —  but,  bless  my  soul,  what 
Has  become  of  her  now,  she  was  here,  was  she  not?" 
"Oh,"  her  mother  joined  in,  "she  ran  off  to  catch 
A  white  kitten  she  saw.   There's  no  fear  of  a  scratch, 
She  understands  kittens."  " Did  she  hear  what  I'm 

saying?" 

I  asked.   "I  am  really  afraid  she  was  paying 
But  little  attention,  her  fingers  were  drumming 
In  time  to  some  sort  of  a  tune  she  was  humming. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  73 

Now  she  and  the  kitten  are  disposed  to  agree, 

We  have  lost  her,  I  fear,  so  you'll  have  to  take  me." 

Now  what  can  a  gallant  gentleman  do 

On  receiving  a  challenge  so  couched?  "Entre  nous, 

I  think  you're  delightful,"  I  said  in  aside, 

"  Your  verses  have  made  many  poets  emerald-eyed. 

What  you  seem  to  do  without  turning  a  hair 

Is  just  the  one  trick  makes  the  less  gifted  swear. 

Who  would  copy  you,  digs  for  himself  a  fine  snare. " 

But  when  a  man  whispers  inside  of  his  mind 

He  can  scarcely  expect  an  onlooker  to  find 

His  abstraction  amusing.  My  friend  woke  me  smartly 

From  my  silent  flirtation  by  announcing,  quite  tartly, 

"The  child,  as  you've  proved,  is  a  lusus  natures, 

A  verdict  I'm  sure  any  qualified  jury 

Would  agree  to  at  once  were  her  case  up  for  trial. 

Why  even  our  feminophobe  on  the  '  Dial ' 

Never  dared  to  bring  forward  young  ladies  of  ten 

As  serious  rivals  to  middle-aged  men. 

Poor  Margaret  Fuller,  how  she  would  have  doted  on 

Your  remarkable  age,  and  how  happily  floated  on 

Its  dawn-coloured  currents  and  all  its  forensical 

Preoccupations!  We  were  so  common-sensical. 

Perhaps  we  were  tainted  with  some  sentimentalism, 

But  your  beau  ideal  seems  to  be  elementalism. 

I  can  cap  you,  however,  by  mentioning  one 

Poet  who  never  grew  up,  your  friend,  Miss  Dickin- 


son." 


"The  comparison's  just,"  I  declared.   "As  to  Hilda, 


74  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Your  juxtaposition  need  never  bewilder 

The  admirers  of  either.  One  you  failed  quite  to  scotch ; 

The  other,  I  think,  you  should  certainly  watch." 

"Well,  well,"  he  said  hastily,  "but  I  protest 

At  sitting  all  night  with  you  and  your  quest. 

Who's  the  next,  and  be  quick."  As  if  riding  a  race 

I  dashed  at  my  subject:  "Let  me  introduce  Grace 

Conkling,  no  one  is  so  handy  at  brooks, 

They  chatter  and  spatter  through  all  of  her  books. 

And  her  fish  —  every  angler  is  on  tenterhooks 

Lest  they  should  escape  him.  The  same  with  her  birds. 

My  land,  what  a  fluttering  they  make!    Quite  two 

thirds 
Of  her  work  is  concerned  with  them,  so  that  her 

pages 

Present  the  appearance  of  so  many  cages. 
Then  mountains  —  yes,  mountains  —  she  crams  them 

in  too. 

The  little  nearby  ones  all  green,  and  all  blue 
The  more  distant  peaks.  She  is  great  on  perspective. 
And  whatever  her  theme,  she  is  always  selective. 
Take  her  love-poems,  for  instance,  she  serves,  piping 

hot, 

A  lyric  of  passion,  and  chooses  the  spot 
For  its  setting  somewhere  where  you  go  in  a  yacht: 
South  America,  Mexico,  wherever  not, 
So  there  is  a  garden  with  grapefruit,  kumquat, 
A  score  or  two  peach-trees  and  some  apricot. 
For  her  flowers,  one  should  be  an  encyclopedia. 
No  less  an  abundance  of  knowledge  the  medea 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  75 

Could  possibly  be  to  surmount  and  recount  'em. 
(Here  I've  got  in  a  mess.    There's  no  rhyme  except 

'fount/  Hem! 

Take  no  notice  I  beg  of  the  exceedingly  thin  ice 
I'm  skating  on;  if  you  find  my  heroine  nice, 
Which  she  certainly  must  be  to  all  masculine  eyes, 
I  care  not  a  whit  with  what  names  I  am  twitted. 
On  account  of  my  subject,  the  claim's  manumitted.) 
Now  turn  back  six  lines,  so  you  capture  the  gist 
Of  my  tale  where  I  left  it  —  I  will  jot  down  a  list 
Of  a  few  of  her  flowers  which  must  not  be  missed. 
There's  magnolia  first,  of  the  kind  grandiflora, 
With  its  moons  of  blooms  scenting  the  air  where 

Senora 

Jimenez,  Alcaro  —  take  your  pick,  I  would  banish 
Such  names  if  I  could,  but  the  Senora's  Spanish  — 
Walks  under  daturas  whose  cups  of  perfume 
Hang  above  her,  with  jasmine  so  thick  there's  scant 

room 

To  pass  down  the  path  to  the  beds  where  the  lilies 
Are  standing  together  in  a  stately  and  still  ease. 
The  dates  are  in  blossom,  or  is  it  in  fruit?  — 
One  should  not  make  a  list  unless  able  to  do't, 
And  this  Mexican  flora  trips  any  one's  foot  — 
Never  mind,  it's  enough  that  the  lady's  en  route 
To  a  clandestine  tryst,  when  a  tingling  sol  fa 
Shakes  the  garden  to  life,  for  he's  brought  his  guitar. 
I  acknowledge  I've  taken  a  few  autocratic 
Liberties  with  my  author,  who's  never  dramatic, 
But  the  garden  alone  seemed  to  me  miasmatic, 


76  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

With  its  scents  and  its  sounds,  but  for  the  rest  solus. 
If  we  must  not  embroider,  why  she  must  parole  us. 
Since  I've  given  no  promise,  and  the  scene,  without 

doubt, 

Should  have  been  there  although  the  poet  left  it  out, 
It  shall  stand  in  my  version  —  and  there's  a  night- 
piece. 

But  what  of  the  mornings,  as  soft  as  crepe-llsse 
Till  the  mists  IDUHI  away  with  the  sun  and  leave 

staring 

A  peacock-hued  dome,  with  gilt  cornices,  flaring 
Above  an  old  market-place  crowded  with  fig-trees 
And  the  flame-coloured  awnings  of  booths  where  the 

big  trees 

Make  a  thunder-cloud  shade,  and  Giuseppe,  Felice, 
(These   Mexican,  names   make   our   own   sound   so 

screechy !) 

Are  vociferously  selling  figs,  melons,  and  grapes? 
It's  the  rainbow  gone  mad  in  all  colours  and  shapes. 
There  are  smoky  blue  plums  and  raw-striped  cucum- 
bers, 

Red  slits  of  pomegranates,  gold  loquats,  the  umbers 
Of  nuts  and  the  green  of  almonds  not  yet  husked; 
Huge  elephant  baskets  of  flowers  all  betusked 
With  long  sprays  of  yucca  —  the  poet  has  attacked 

us 

With  all  of  her  armoury  at  once  —  spears  of  cactus 
Shoot  Out  between  passion-vines  spreading  their  dis- 
cus- 
Like  blooms  just  above  a  bouquet  of  hibiscus. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  77 

The  trees,  I  observe,  are  all  festooned  with  monkeys, 
Long  necklaces  of  them,  and  the  square's  choked  with 

donkeys. 

The  bell  in  the  peacock  dome  clatters  and  clangs, 
Parakeets  flash  through  leaves  like  so  many  whiz-bangs 
On  the  fourth  of  July,  there  are  orchids  exploding 
New  flowers  each  minute  over  hand-carts  unloading 
Bread-fruit  and  bananas,  and  the  hot,  dry  sirocco 
Tips  it  all  to  a  sparkle  so  bright  and  rococo 
The  book  should  be  bound  in  a  purple  morocco 
If  the  contents  and  cover  were  made  to  agree, 
This  dismal  sage-green  is  a  catastrophe; 
But  what  publisher  thinks  of  aught  else  but  his  fee.1 
I  have  written  my  best,  but  it's  so  multiplex  I  can 
Never  compete  with  her  when  she's  on  Mexican 
Horticulture,  zoology,  and  I  don't  know  what  all, 
Unless  I've  Gray's  'Botany'  handy,  and  Nuttall, 
With  Wilson  and  Chapman  close  by  on  the  table; 
And  as  to  the  speech,  it  is  just  so  much  Babel 
To  me  if  each  word  is  not  tagged  with  a  label 
In  good  easy  English.  Well,  no  matter  for  that, 
I've  told  you  she's  got  every  atmosphere  pat. 
She's  as  happy  with  pine-trees  and  an  orchard  of  ap- 
ples 

And  the  clouds  which  a  'slender  sky*  scatters  and  dap- 
ples 
Over  grass-and-stone  hillsides,  as  with  lotus-brimmed 

fountains, 

And  I'll  swear  that  no  poet  has  done  better  with  moun- 
tains. 


78  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Her  flickers,  and  veeries,  and  finches,  and  thrushes 
Are  as  good  as  her  nightingale  hid  in  a  bush  is, 
And  when  she  would  sing  of  the  Old  Mohawk  Trail 
I  toss  up  my  hat  with  a  shout  of  '  All  hail ! 
Troubadour  of  New  England,  who  knows  that  white 

pine  is 
Her  very  soul's  self/  and  I  write  in  gold,  ' Finis! '" 

"Dear  me,"  said  my  friend,  "so  you  think  she's  the 

laureate 
Of  poor  old  New  England."   "If  there's  any  one  bore 

I  hate 

More  than  another,"  I  answered,  "it's  the  man 
Who  pretends  to  see  farther  than  any  one  can. 
Considering  we've  Robinson,  Miss  Lowell,  and  Frost 
Such  a  statement  were  rash.    I'm  afraid  you  have 

lost 
Just  the  shade  I  intended;  there's  a  difference,  be 

sure, 

Between  a  poet  laureate  and  a  troubadour.* 
"The  point  is  well  taken,"  he  admitted  at  once. 
"Was  I  laureate  or  troubadour?  The  distinction  con- 
fronts 

Me  now  rather  unpleasantly.  For,  was  I  able 
To  go  her  one  better  in  my  famous  '  Fable '  ? 
That  I  loved  my  New  England  you'll  find  by  the  space 
I  devoted  to  her  in  that  book.   Face  to  face 
With  her  new  poets,  I'm  wondering  who'll  win  in  the 

race. 
Am  I  in  the  lead  since  they've  quickened  the  pace? 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  79 

I'm  beginning  to  doubt  it  as  far  as  mere  praise 
Counts  at  least,  I  was  Frost  and  she  mixed,  hence  my 

bays, 

If  I  really  deserved  any.   But  with  this  poetess 
I  find  myself  back  on  old  ground,  none  the  less- 
Delightful,  be  sure,  and  there  is  a  slight  change 
In  her  manner,  I  do  detect  that,  but  her  range 
Does  not  carry  me  out  of  the  depth  of  my  sympathy." 
"The  next  fellow  will,"  was  my  succinct  reply. 
"Alfred  Kreymborg,  deft  master  of  the  oddest  machine 
Made  of  strings  and  of  gut  which  I  ever  have  seen. 
A  hybrid  of  sorts  yclept  mandolute. 
Queer  instrument?  Very.   His  voice  is  the  flute 
Playing  over  the  strings,  and  his  songs  epigrams 
Tinkled   up   into    rhythm.    Oh,   yes,   they're   called 

shams 

By  the  public  at  large,  but  who  wants  a  large  public? 
Kreymborg's  manner  to  his  is  a  kiss  and  a  kick. 
He's  the  monkey  of  poetry  who  climbs  on  a  stick, 
But  that's  only  his  way  to  conceal  by  a  trick 
The  real  truth  he  has.  Oh,  he's  impolitic 
To  a  fault,  but  the  fellow  is  no  lunatic, 
Nor  mountebank  either,  though  some  people  think 
He  has  squeezed  not  two  drops  of  his  blood  in  his  ink 
And  regard  him  as  jester  with  more  than  suspicion. 
The  fact  is  he's  an  untaught,  but  natural  musician. 
His  poems  and  his  tunes  come  straight  out  of  his  pestle 
And  fall  as  they  will.  Unbaked  clay's  not  a  vessel, 
However,  and  though  I  believe  he  has  made 
Some  excellent  poems,  that's  not  really  his  trade, 


80  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Which  I  grieve  to  admit  consists  largely  of  bluffing. 
The  gems  in  his  books  are  half  smothered  in  stuffing. 
He's  an  ironist  pure,  but  I  can't  call  him  simple; 
More  than  one  of  his  efforts  may  be  classed  as  a  pimple 
On  the  fair  face  of  poetry,  but  others  delight  us 
As  much  for  their  beauty  as  the  first  kind  affright  us 
By  their  horrible  ugliness,  wry-formed  and  waxy. 
He's  a  man  flinging  queer  little  toys  from  a  taxi. 
If  you  scrabble  round  fast  enough  you  may  pick  a  good 

one, 

But  the  chances  are  ten  to  one  you'll  get  a  wooden 
Contraption  of  rude,  creaky  springs,  badly  gilt, 
Just  words  nailed  together  haphazard,  no  lilt, 
And  no  sense  you  can  find.   It's  a  real  'hunt  the  slip- 
per' 

To  read  what  he  writes,  and  you  may  come  a  tripper 
Or  you  may  win  a  prize,  that's  the  whole  proposition. 
How  does  it  affect  his  poetic  position? 
I  tell  you  quite  frankly  I  feel  at  a  loss 
For  an  answer  to  give  you,  we  might  try  a  toss 
Or  leave  it  in  peace  on  the  lap  of  the  Gods. 
To  put  it  quite  plainly,  dear  Sir,  what's  the  odds? 
When  we  come  to  his  singing,  it's  another  concern. 
However  on  earth  did  the  chap  come  to  learn 
Of  those  strange  sweeping  chords  and  that  odd  whis- 
pered singing 

Which  cleaves  to  the  heart  and  sets  the  nerves  sting- 
ing, 

And  where  did  he  find  his  sawed-off  mandolin 
Or  guitar,  or  banjo?  Good  Lord,  it's  a  sin 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  81 

When  there  is  such  an  instrument  no  one  else  knows 

it, 

But  the  luckier  for  him,  I  say,  and  therefore  —  prositl 
The  poems  he  writes  down  never  end,  scarce  begin, 
If  the  truth  must  be  told ;  in  the  music,  a  thin 
Silver  chord  holds  a  something,  a  glitter  of  fable, 
And  the  tale  and  its  moral  lie  strung  on  a  cable, 
Half-music,  half-thought,  but  what  we  have  heard 
Is  more  echo  than  music,  more  music  than  word. 
He's  a  poet  in  the  core  of  him,  a  bit  of  a  clown, 
And  two-thirds  of  a  vagabond  drifting  round  town, 
Seeing  whimsical  nothings  at  every  street  corner. 
A  lover  possessed,  an  inveterate  scorner, 
Engaged  in  a  pulling  of  plums  like  Jack  Horner  — 
There's  the  man,  Alfred  Kreymborg."    "We  had  no 

counterpart 

To  your  monkey-musician.   Do  you  call  the  thing  art 
You've  been  talking  about?"    The  old  gentleman's 

tone 

Betrayed  just  a  trace  of  annoyance.   "I've  shown 
You  a  figure,  make  of  him  whatever  you  can, 
To  tag  him  as  this  or  that's  not  in  my  plan. 
You  asked  me  to  give  you  each  phase  of  the  time." 
"And  I  could  not  stand  Whitman  because  he'd  no 

rhyme!" 

He  gasped.    "You  may  banish  all  verse  that's  har- 
monious, 

But  it's  not  so  far  short  of  being  felonious 
When  you  ask  us  to  substitute  for  it  the  simious. 
You  will  find  what  that  means  in  the  pages  of  Linnaeus. 


82  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

We  raised  roses,  but  you  seem  to  cultivate  zinnias, 
Not  to  call  your  verse  anything  more  ignominious." 
"You  forget,*'  I  reminded  him,  "his  mandolute; 
To  judge  him  without  it  is  hardly  acute." 
The  old  gentleman   suddenly   turned   and   snapped 

''Nonsense!" 

"On  the  contrary,  Sir,  it's  the  sine  gud  non  sense. 
We  have  Lindsay,  a  voice ;  and  Kreymborg,  an  instru- 
ment." 

"Is  your  poetry  a  junk-shop?    I  am  now  quite  con- 
vinced you  meant 

All  this  as  hoaxing."    I  tried  to  protest. 
He  went  on  in  a  stream  like  a  person  possessed : 
"A  junk-shop  indeed!  There  is  Frost,  a  dim  Buddha 
Set  high  on  a  shelf;  there  is  Sandburg,  a  cruder 
Carved  god  of  some  sort,  neither  English  nor  Gothic  — 
Assyrian,  Egyptian,  perhaps  —  a  huge  Thothic 
Sacerdotal  presentment  placed  over  the  door; 
There  are  two  Chinese  vases,  a  spy-glass,  three  score 
Or  so  dog's-eared  books,  flower-pots,  and  a  spinet, 
This  odd  jumble's  Miss  Lowell;  there's  a  little  green 

linnet 

Hung  up  in  a  cage,  Sara  Teasdale,  I  think; 
And  a  battered  old  desk  all  bespattered  with  ink, 
That's  Masters;  and  just  up  above  is  a  palette 
Smudged  over  with  paint,  that  is  Fletcher;  a  mallet 
Thrown  down  on  a  heap  of  new  books  which  it  crushes 
Is  Aiken ;  and  there  is  a  bundle  of  rushes 
Just  picked  and  brought  in  to  the  shop  to  set  off 
A  stone-lantern  —  'H.D.';  just  behind  is  a  trough 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  83 

To  water  poor  readers,  it's  not  overflowing 

But  full  to  the  brim  and  seems  always  just  going 

To  spill,  but  that  never  quite  happens,  you  guess 

At  once  this  is  Robinson ;  in  a  recess 

Just  under  the  counter  are  two  or  three  chromos 

Of  tropical  scenes,  Mrs.  Conkling  is  those; 

And  the  blocks  which  you  see  have  just  come  from  the 

gilder 

I  need  hardly  tell  you  are  your  precious  Hilda, 
They  are  specially  made  to  build  Castles  in  Spain. 
There's  your  junk-shop  of  poets,  and  I  tell  you  again 
I  don't  like  to  be  quizzed."    Poor  old  soul,  he  was  fu- 
rious, 

But  when  once  convinced  his  suspicions  were  spurious 
He  was  eager  as  ever.  "  For,"  said  I,  "  there's  no  quar- 
rel. 

The  shop  sign's  a  wreath  and  it's  possibly  laurel." 
"Perhaps  I  have  half  a  suspicion  of  that 
Myself,"  he  smiled  broadly,  "now  give  tit  for  tat, 
And  confound  all  my  quondam  ridiculous  ires 
With  something  so  pleasant  and  ..." 

"TheUntermeyers!" 

The  shout  which  I  gave  cut  his  sentence  in  two, 
And  we  lost  the  last  part  in  the  hullabaloo 
I  made  as  I  served  up  my  marital  dish. 
"Two  poets,  and  between  them  whatever  you  wish. 
If  they  haven't  the  depth,  they've  more  range  than  the 

Brownings, 
It  runs  all  the  way  from  complexes  to  clownings, 


84  .    A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

With  love-songs  so  frank  they  pursue  more  than  follow 

man 

Being  made  on  the  pattern  approved  by  King  Solo- 
man. 

(My  so  spelling  that  name  is  nothing  to  look  solemn  on, 
I've  a  black-letter  precedent  one  might  write  a  column 

on. 

Orthographical  pedantry  was  not  in  King  Solomon.) 
At  least  hers  are,  a  perfectly  natural  law 
Vide  Freud,   D.  H.  Lawrence,  and  George  Bernard 

Shaw. 

For  woman  possesses,  it  seems,  an  atomic 
Attraction  for  man,  and  his  serio-comic 
Pretence  of  pursuit  is  a  masculine  blind 
To  keep  up  his  prestige  within  his  own  mind. 
If  the  lady  appears  to  be  fleeing,  the  stroke 
Is  a  masterly  one  and  just  her  little  joke. 
But  when  this  same  woman,  in  some  bright  confection 
Of  boudoir  attire,  gives  herself  to  reflection 
And  writes  down  her  heart  in  a  freak  of  exposure, 
The  result  will  most  certainly  jar  the  composure 
Of  elderly  persons  brought  up  more  demurely, 
While  youth  will  retire,  with  doors  locked  securely, 
And  read  what  to  them  is  a  gorgeous  display 
Of  Paradise  opened  on  visiting  day. 
The  best  gifts  of  our  time  are  these  pure  revelations 
Of  facts  as  they  are  in  all  human  relations 
With  no  understatements  or  exaggerations. 
And  the  West  is  the  East,  with  the  puritan  night 
Swallowed  up  in  a  gush  of  approaching  daylight  — 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  85 

At  least,  so  our  cherished  delusion  mistakes  it, 
And  since  everything  is  as  man's  attitude  makes  it, 
What  the  Orient  knew  we  are  learning  again 
For  the  next  generation  to  laud  with  '  Amen ! ' 
In  this  wise  are  the  poems  of  Jean  Untermeyer, 
Though  the  whole  of  her  output  takes  less  than  a 

quire 

Of  paper  to  hold  it.   Not  at  all  so  with  Louis, 
He's  as  rich  and  eclectic  as  a  bowl  of  chop-suey. 
If  his  wife  plays  a  timbrel,  he  plays  a  ram's  horn, 
His  ardour  for  worship  is  never  outworn, 
One  of  Joshua's  soldiers,  protecting  his  candle 
With  the  pitcher  he  eagerly  holds  by  the  handle, 
Tramping  his  turn  at  a  long  sentry-go 
Round  and  round  the  high  walls  of  our  new  Jericho; 
Or,  again,  on  a  harp  which,  if  slightly  archaic, 
Has  lost  nothing  in  tone  or  in  timbre  since  Hebraic 
Psalmists  once  plucked  it  in  stern  exhortations 
Before  kneeling  hosts  of  the  wandering  nations. 
Through  the  streets  of  to-day,  with  his  shoulders  set 

square, 

He  walks,  full  of  business,  and  yet  one's  aware 
Of  a  something  he  sees  which  surrounds  and  encloses 
His  vision,  he  might  be  just  gazing  on  Moses 
Descending  the  mountain,  but  his  tables  of  stone 
Have  Marx  written  on  them  and  Debs,  while  his  own 
Name  has  no  place  at  all,  and  that's  characteristic; 
His  ego's  too  eager  to  be  egotistic. 
When  everything  beckons,  why  sit  at  home  brooding 
On  the  opposite  wall;  he's  no  taste  for  secluding 


86  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Himself  or  his  interests,  and  they're  only  controlled 

By  the  small  slice  of  time  which  he  happens  to  hold. 

Punctiliously  present  in  this  exact  moment, 

His  dates  began  when  he  learnt  what  'proximo1  meant. 

No  glance  of  his,  scanning  the  past,  finds  it  prizable, 

The  only  real  worth  is  in  the  realizable; 

Neither  history  nor  legend  induce  him  to  vary 

His  perfect  allegiance  to  the  mere  temporary. 

When  he  takes  on  himself  the  role  of  appraiser, 

His  words  spout  and  gush  like  a  Yellowstone  geyser, 

At  least  for  the  poet  whose  political  ways  err 

From  those  of  society,  an  apt  paraphraser 

Of  the  poems  of  such  men,  he  becomes  a  sharp  razor 

To  others,  no  hint  of  the  sham  sentimental 

Escapes  his  smooth  blade,  and  he  is  not  gentle 

With  the  scenes  or  the  poses  in  which  '  temperamental ' 

Poets  indulge,  and  he's  scarcely  parental 

To  persons  with  leanings  toward  the  transcendental. 

His  dictums,  it's  true,  are  less  poignant  than  plenty, 

And  do  not  rank  too  high  among  cognoscenti, 

Who  are  usually  college  boys  not  quite  turned  twenty. 

He  has  a  blind  spot:  he  cannot  keep  his  eye  on 

A  world  without  man.  Why,  a  fresh  dandelion 

Is  nothing  to  him  without  someone  to  pick  it, 

Observe  it  alone  and  he  hands  you  the  ticket 

For  exit  at  once,  and  it's  not  a  return  check. 

He  hopes  in  this  way  to  act  as  a  stern  check 

On  all  those  untoward  imaginative  flights  .,. 

In  which  he  is  sure  he  descries  signal-lights 

Of  a  shower  of  earth-wrecking  meteorites. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  87 

Now  why  should  a  man  who  is  so  pyrotechnical 
Find  a  mere  meteoric  display  apoplectical, 
While  many  consider  it  a  beautiful  spectacle? 
That's  a  matter  for  wonder;  but,  speaking  of  rockets, 
He  carries  them  round  like  small  change  in  his  pockets. 
A  touch  and  they're  off,  and  the  whiz  and  the  flare 
And  the  burst  of  bright  balls  are  quite  his  affair. 
What  a  crackle  of  rhymes!  They  go  off  like  red  crackers 
Beneath  a  tin  pan.   And  there  are  some  whackers 
Exploding  at  intervals  when  you  least  expect  them, 
And  long  trailing  assonances  set  to  connect  them. 
His  wit  is  a  pin-wheel  which  at  first  jerks  and  spits 
Then  whirls  suddenly  round  as  though  ten  thousand  fits 
Were  in  it,  and  all  is  one  sparkling  gyration 
In  every  known  manner  of  versification. 
But  the  best  of  his  fire-works  comprise  his  set-pieces 
Which  are  really  so  many  bright-coloured  esquisses. 
(Please  pardon  a  liberty  in  pronunciation. 
Le  mot  juste,  I  believe,  needs  no  justification, 
Even  when  it  involves  a  slight  deviation 
From  the  speech  of  a  friendly  but  jaw-breaking  nation, 
Who,  I  trust,  will  regard  this  brief  explanation 
In  the  light  of  a  willing,  though  painful,  libation.) 
But  how  I  run  on !  To  return  to  my  symbol : 
A  bare  two  or  three  poets  have  ever  been  nimble 
Enough  to  depict  their  confreres  and  show  them 
Drawn  to  scale  in  each  feature  as  all  their  friends  know 

them. 

Just  glance  at  them  now,  each  hung  on  a  hook 
Awaiting  the  match  —  Ftt!  Presto!  Now,  look — 


88  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

How  they  flicker  and  burn,  each  one  to  his  trick: 
There  are  Robinson's  quatrains,  Frost's  long,  pliant 

stick 

Of  blank- verse  which  he  carries  when  taking  his  walks, 
And  Sandburg  with  his  suit-case  all  crammed  full  of 

talks 

With  murderers  and  hobos  and  such  worthwhile  gentry ; 
Here  is  Lindsay  retreating  at  speed  to  the  entry 
To  stand  on  the  stair  and  harangue  new  arrivals 
With  the  very  same  stunts  they  employ  at  revivals, 
While  Amy  Lowell,  close  by  the  library  door, 
Announces  her  theories  and  tries  hard  to  score 
More  disciples  than  Lindsay;  though,  with  his  and  her 

medium, 

It's  a  matter  of  choice  which  produces  least  tedium. 
Whoever  the  poet  and  whatever  his  foibles, 
Even  dull  ones  like  —  well,  I  won't  say  —  are  enjoy- 

ables 

When  he  touches  them  up  to  a  glare  with  his  slow- 
match. 

At  this  sort  of  thing  every  one  else  is  no  match 
For  him,  and  the  best  simply  rank  as  *  —  and  Other 

Poets.' 

A  terrible  fellow  with  his  black  line  to  smother  poets, 
And  that  line  is  become  the  poetical  plank 
From  which  he  dives  into  posterity's  tank. 
It's  a  curious  conceit,  and  his  one  bit  of  swank, 
To  flaunt  himself  under  a  long  line  of  blank. 
But  what  poet,  quick  or  dead,  would  dare  to  decline 
An  immortal  existence  conferred  by  one  line. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  89 

Take  it  then,  Untermeyer,  irrepressible  Louis, 

And  observe,  as  you  touch  it,  that  the  leaves  are  still 

dewy. 

That  dew  is  the  proof  that  it's  not  bombazine, 
One  has  to  be  careful  with  a  housewife  like  Jean. 
The  lady,  you  know,  is  a  trifle  impulsive, 
And  I  should  not  like  my  gift  to  receive  a  propulsive 
Reception.   For  fame's  rather  like  millinery, 
To-day  it's  a  blossom,  to-morrow  a  cherry, 
The  day  after,  glass  flowers  in  some  cemetery. 
But  who,  even  in  fame,  would  remain  stationary? 
Not  you  certainly,  Louis,  your  deepest  devotion 
Is  involved  in  this  question,  but  you  have  no  notion 
How  nearly  you  come  to  perpetual  motion." 
Here  I  ended  abruptly.  When  he's  carried  a  man 
To  the  centre  of  movement,  the  historian 
Does  well  to  leave  off.   I  left  off  therefore. 
My  old  friend  somewhat  wearily  asked,  "Is  there 

more?" 

"  A  few  odds  and  ends,  but  not  much  you  need  heed/' 
I  replied.  "Very  well,  run  them  over  at  speed," 
He  commanded. 

Now  if  he  had  wielded  a  bludgeon 
I  could  not  have  more  quickly  obeyed,  no  curmudgeon 
Could  have  forced  my  direction  more  surely  than  he 

did. 

His  imperious  courtesy  was  all  that  I  needed 
To  start  off  again  with  my  tale:  "The  expatriates 
Come  next,"  I  began,  "but  the  man  who  expatiates 


90  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Upon  them  must  go  all  yclad  in  cold  steel 

Since  these  young  men  are  both  of  them  most  difficile, 

And  each  is  possessed  of  a  gift  for  satire. 

Their  forked  barbs  would  pierce  any  usual  attire. 

In  order  of  merit,  if  not  of  publicity, 

I  will  take  Eliot  first,  though  it  smacks  of  duplicity 

To  award  Ezra  Pound  the  inferior  place 

As  he  simply  won't  run  if  not  first  in  a  race. 

Years  ago,  'twould  have  been  the  other  way  round, 

With  Eliot  a  rather  bad  second  to  Pound. 

But  Pound  has  been  woefully  free  with  the  mustard 

And  so  occupied  has  quite  ruined  his  custard. 

No  poems  from  his  pen,  just  spleen  on  the  loose, 

And  a  man  who  goes  on  in  that  way  cooks  his  goose. 

T.  S.  Eliot's  a  very  unlike  proposition, 

He  has  simply  won  through  by  process  of  attrition. 

Where  Pound  played  the  fool,  Eliot  acted  the  wiseacre; 

Eliot  works  in  his  garden,  Pound  stultifies  his  acre. 

Eliot's  always  engaged  digging  fruit  out  of  dust; 

Pound  was  born  in  an  orchard,  but  his  trees  have  the 
rust. 

Eliot's  mind  is  perpetually  fixed  and  alert; 

Pound  goes  off  anywhere,  anyhow,  like  a  squirt. 

Pound  believes  he's  a  thinker,  but  he's  far  too  roman- 
tic; 

Eliot's  sure  he's  a  poet  when  he's  only  pedantic. 

But  Eliot  has  raised  pedantry  to  a  pitch, 

While  Pound  has  upset  romance  into  a  ditch. 

Eliot  fears  to  abandon  an  old  masquerade; 

Pound's  one  perfect  happiness  is  to  parade. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  91 

Eliot's  learning  was  won  at  a  very  great  price; 
What  Pound  calls  his  learning  he  got  in  a  trice. 
Eliot  knows  what  he  knows,  though  he  cannot  digest 

it; 

Pound  knows  nothing  at  all,  but  has  frequently 
guessed  it. 

Eliot  builds  up  his  essays  by  a  process  of  massing; 

Pound's  are  mostly  hot  air,  what  the  vulgar  call  'gass- 
ing.' 

Eliot  lives  like  a  snail  in  his  shell,  pen  protruding; 

Pound  struts  like  a  cock,  self-adored,  self-deluding. 

Pound's  darling  desire  is  his  ego's  projection; 

Eliot  tortures  his  soul  with  a  dream  of  perfection. 

Pound's  an  ardent  believer  in  the  value  of  noise; 

Eliot  strains  every  nerve  to  attain  a  just  poise. 

Each  despises  his  fellows,  for  varying  reasons ; 

Each  one  is  a  traitor,  but  with  different  treasons. 

Each  has  left  his  own  country,  but  Pound  is  quite  sick 
of  it, 

While  for  Eliot's  sojourn,  he  is  just  in  the  nick  of  it. 

Pound  went  gunning  for  trouble,  and  got  it,  for  cause; 

Eliot,  far  more  astute,  has  deserved  his  applause. 

Each  has  more  brain  than  heart,  but  while  one  man's  a 
critic 

The  other  is  more  than  two-thirds  tympanitic. 

Both  of  them  are  book-men,  but  where  Eliot  has  found 

A  horizon  in  letters,  Pound  has  only  found  Pound. 

Each  man  feels  himself  so  little  complete 

That  he  dreads  the  least  commerce  with  the  man  in  the 
street; 


92  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

Each  imagines  the  world  to  be  leagued  in  a  dim  pact 
To  destroy  his  immaculate  taste  by  its  impact. 
To  conceive  such  a  notion,  one  might  point  out  slyly, 
Would  scarcely  occur  to  an  author  more  highly 
Original ;  such  men  seldom  bother  their  wits 
With  outsiders  at  all,  whether  fits  or  misfits. 
Where  they  are,  whom  they  see,  is  a  matter  of  sheer 
Indifference  to  a  poet  with  his  own  atmosphere 
To  exist  in,  and  such  have  no  need  to  be  preachy 
Anent   commonplaceness   since   they   can't  write  a 

cliche  — 

In  totoy  at  least,  and  it's  toto  that  grounds 
All  meticulous  poets  like  the  Eliots  and  Pounds. 
Taking  up  Eliot's  poetry,  it's  a  blend  of  intensive 
And  elegant  satire  with  a  would-be  offensive 
Kind  of  virulent  diatribe,  and  neither  sort's  lacking 
In  the  high  type  of  polish  we  demand  of  shoe-blacking. 
Watteau  if  you  like,  arm  in  arm  with  Laforgue, 
And  both  of  these  worthies  laid  out  in  a  morgue. 
The  poems  are  expert  even  up  to  a  vice, 
But  they're  chilly  and  dead  like  corpses  on  ice. 
Now  a  man  who's  reluctant  to  heat  his  work  through, 
I  submit,  is  afraid  of  what  that  work  will  do 
On  its  own,  with  its  muscles  and  sinews  unfrozen. 
Something,  I  must  think,  which  he  would  not  have 

chosen. 

Is  there  barely  a  clue  here  that  the  action  of  heat 
Might  reveal  him  akin  to  the  man  in  the  street?    - 
For  his  brain  —  there's  no  doubt  that  is  up  on  a  steeple, 
But  his  heart  might  betray  him  as  one  of  the  people. 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  93 

A  fearful  dilemma!  We  can  hardly  abuse  him 

For  hiding  the  damaging  fact  and  excuse  him 

If  it  really  be  so,  and  we've  more  than  a  hint  of  it, 

Although  I,  for  one,  like  him  better  by  dint  of  it. 

Since  the  poet's  not  the  half  of  him,  we  must  include 

The  critical  anchorite  of  his  '  Sacred  Wood. ' 

'  This  slim  duodecimo  you  must  have  your  eye  on 

If  you'd  be  up  to  date, '  say  his  friends.  He's  a  sly  one 

To  have  chosen  this  format  —  the  book's  heavy  as  iron. 

I'm  acutely  aware  that  its  grave  erudition 

Is  quite  in  the  line  of  a  certain  tradition, 

That  one  which  is  commonly  known  as  tuition. 

To  read  it  is  much  like  a  lengthy  sojourning 

In  at  least  two  or  three  institutions  of  learning. 

But,  being  no  schoolboy,  I  find  I'm  not  burning 

Fof  this  sort  of  instruction,  and  vote  for  adjourning. 

What  the  fellow's  contrived  to  stuff  into  his  skull 

May  be  certainly  classed  as  a  pure  miracle, 

But  the  way  he  imparts  it  is  terribly  dull. 

This  may  not  be  fair,  for  I've  only  begun  it, 

And  one  should  not  pronounce  on  a  book  till  one's  done 

it, 

But  I've  started  so  often,  in  so  many  places, 
I  think,  had  there  been  any  livelier  spaces 
I  must  have  encountered  at  least  one  of  those 
Before  falling,  I  say  it  with  shame,  in  a  doze. 
We  must  take  Ezra  Pound  from  a  different  angle: 
He's  a  belfry  of  excellent  chimes  run  to  jangle 
By  being  too  often  and  hurriedly  tugged  at, 
And  even,  when  more  noise  was  wanted,  just  slugged  at 


94  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

And  hammered  with  anything  there  was  lying  round. 
Such  delicate  bells  could  not  stand  so  much  Pound. 
Few  men  have  to  their  credit  more  excellent  verses 
Than  he  used  to  write,  and  even  his  worse  is 
Much  better  than  most  people's  good.  He'd  a  flair 
For  just  the  one  word  indispensably  there, 
But  which  few  could  have  hit  on.  Another  distinction 
Was  the  way  he  preserved  fledgeling  poets  from  extinc- 
tion. 

Had  he  never  consented  to  write  when  the  urge 
To  produce  was  not  on  him,  he'd  have  been  on  the 

verge 

Of  a  great  reputation  by  now,  but  his  shoulder 
Had  always  its  chip,  and  Ezra's  a  scolder. 
Off  he  flew,  giving  nerves  and  brain  up  to  the  business 
In  a  crowing  excitement  not  unmixed  with  dizziness, 
Whenever  he  could  get  any  sort  of  newspaper 
To  lend  him  a  column  and  just  let  him  vapour. 
But  while  he  was  worrying  his  gift  of  invention 
For  adequate  means  to  ensure  the  prevention 
Of  any  one's  getting  what  he  had  not  got, 
His  uncherished  talent  succumbed  to  dry  rot. 
When,  after  the  battle,  he  would  have  employed  her, 
He  learnt,  to  his  cost,  that  he  had  destroyed  her. 
Now  he  does  with  her  ghost,  and  the  ghosts  of  the  hosts 
Of  troubadours,  minstrels,  and  kings,  for  he  boasts 
An  acquaintance  with  persons  of  whose  very  names 
I  am  totally  ignorant,  likewise  their  fames. 
The  foremost,  of  course,  is  Bertrand  de  Born, 
He's  a  sort  of  pervasively  huge  leprecawn 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  95 

Popping  out  from  Pound's  lines  where  you  never  ex- 
pect him. 

He  is  our  poet's  chief  lar,  so  we  must  not  neglect  him. 
There  is  Pierre  de  Maensac,  and  Pierre  won  the  sing- 
ing— 
Where  or  how  I  can't  guess,  but  Pound  sets  his  fame 

ringing 

Because  he  was  dreitz  horn  (whatever  that  is) 
And  had  De  Tierci's  wife;  what  happened  to  his 
We  don't  know,  in  fact  we  know  nothing  quite  clearly, 
For  Pound  always  treats  his  ghosts  cavalierly. 
There  is  John  Borgia's  bath,  and  be  sure  that  he  needed 

it; 

Aurunculeia's  shoe,  but  no  one  much  heeded  it. 
There's  a  chap  named  Navighero  and  another  Bara- 

bello, 

Who  prods  a  Pope's  elephant;  and  one  Mozarello;  ' 
Savairic  Mauleon  —  Good  Lord,  what  a  dance 
Of  impossible  names!  First  I  think  we're  in  France, 
Then  he  slides  in  Odysseus,  and  Eros,  and  Atthis  — 
But  I'm  not  to  be  fooled  in  my  Greek,  that's  what  that 

is. 

Yet,  look,  there's  Italian  sticking  out  in  italics 
And  French  in  plain  type,  the  foreign  vocalics 
Do  give  one  the  feeling  of  infinite  background, 
When  it's  all  just  a  trick  of  that  consummate  quack, 

Pound, 

To  cheat  us  to  thinking  there's  something  behind  it. 
But,  when  nothing's  to  find,  it's  a  hard  job  to  find 
it. 


96  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

The  tragedy  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  man 
Had  a  potentiality  such  as  few  can 
Look  back  to  or  forward  to ;  had  he  but  kept  it, 
There's  no  bar  in  all  poetry  but  he  might  have  leapt  it. 
Even  now,  I  believe,  if  he'd  let  himself  grow, 
He  might  start  again  . . ."  "We  will  have  no  'although* 
In  your  gamut  of  poets.   Your  man  is  a  victim 
Of  expatriation,  and,  as  usual,  it's  licked  him. 
It  has  happened  more  times  than  I  care  to  reflect, 
And  the  general  toll  is  two  countries'  neglect." 
The  old  gentleman  sighed.  "  I  presume  that  you've  fin- 
ished," 

He  went  on  at  last.   "The  ranks  are  diminished," 
I  answered,  "but  still  there  remain  cne  or  two 
Whose  names,  at  the  least,  I  must  pass  in  review. 

There's  William  Rose  Benet,  his  poems  have  no  beaters 
In  their  own  special  genre-  he's  a  wonder  with  metres, 
A  sleight  of  hand  artist,  and  one  of  his  mysteries 
Is  his  cabinet  trick  with  all  the  world's  histories. 
There's  Bodenheim,  trowel  in  hand,  bent  on  laying 
A  tessellate  floor  with  the  words  he  is  saying.  > 
Squares  of  marble,  moss-agate,  and  jade,  and  carnelian, 
Byzantium  in  pleno,  never  Delphic  nor  Delion. 
A  perfect  example  of  contemporaneity, 
But  with  too  little  force  and  too  much  femineity. 
The  man's  a  cascade  of  verbose  spontaneity. 
Except  when  he's  giving  Advice,  there  he  shines 
And  La  Fontaine  plays  hide  and  seek  in  his  lines. 
As  a  maker  of  Fables,  no  one  ever  quarrels 


A  CRITICAL  FABLE  97 

With  his  style,  and  old  ^Esop  must  look  to  his  laurels. 
There's  another  young  man  who  strums  a  clavier 
And  prints  a  new  poem  every  third  or  fourth  year. 
Looking  back,  I  don't  know  that  anything  since 
Has  delighted  me  more  than  his  '  Peter  Quince.' 
He  has  published  no  book  and  adopts  this  as  pose, 
But  it's  rather  more  likely,  I  think,  to  suppose 
The  particular  gift  he's  received  from  the  Muses 
Is  a  tufted  green  field  under  whose  grass  there  oozes 
A  seeping  of  poetry,  like  wind  through  a  cloister; 
On  occasion  it  rises,  and  then  the  field's  moister 
And  he  has  a  poem  if  he'll  trouble  to  bale  it, 
Address  it  to  'Poetry,'  and  afterwards  mail  it. 
His  name,  though  the  odds  overbalance  the  evens 
Of  those  who  don't  know  it  as  yet's  Wallace  Stevens, 
But  it  might  be  John  Doe  for  all  he  seems  to  care  — 
A  little  fine  work  scattered  into  the  air 
By  the  wind,  it  appears,  and  he  quite  unaware 
Of  the  fact,  since  his  motto's  a  cool  '  laisser-faire.9 
There's  Edna  Millay  with  her  'Aria  da  Cap- 
O'h,  she  dealt  all  society  a  pretty  sharp  rap 
With  that  bauble  of  hers,  be  it  drama  or  fable, 
Which  I  certainly  trust  won't  be  laid  on  the  table 
In  my  time.  Her  '  Bean-Stalk'  is  a  nice  bit  of  greenery, 
For  one  of  her  charms  is  her  most  charming  scenery, 
Few  can  handle  more  deftly  this  sort  of  machinery. 
But  I  must  call  a  halt,  or  your  brain  will  be  flooded 
With  big  poets,  and  little  poets,  and  poets  not  yet 

budded." 
"Have  you  really  so  many?"  my  old  friend  desired 


98  A  CRITICAL  FABLE 

To  know.  "If  you  count  all  the  ones  who've  aspired, 

I  could  go  on  all  night.   You  see  we  have  got 

A  Renaissance  on."   "Dear  me,  I  forgot," 

He  remarked  somewhat  dryly.   "We  were  not  renais- 

sant, 

But  also  I  note  we  were  far  less  complacent 
Than  you  seem  to  be,  and  this  beggar-my-neighbour 
Game  you  all  indulge  in  was  no  part  of  our  labour." 
"No,"  I  told  him,  "you  played  on  a  pipe  and  a  tabour; 
We  go  girt  with  a  shield  and  drawing  a  sabre. 
And  yet  you,  with  Miranda  .  .  "     I  talked  to  the  swell 
Of  the  wide-running  river,  to  a  clock-striking  bell. 
There  was  no  one  beside  me.  A  wave  caught  the  sedge 
Of  the  bank  and  went  ruffling  along  its  soft  edge. 
Behind  me  a  motor  honked  twice,  and  the  bridges 
Glared  suddenly  out  of  the  dusk,  twinkling  ridges 
Notched  into  the  dim  river-line.  Wind  was  whirling 
The  plane-trees  about,  it  sent  the  waves  curling 
Across  one  another  in  a  chuckle  of  laughter  — 
And  I  recollect  nothing  that  happened  thereafter. 
Who  my  gentleman  was,  if  you  hazard  a  guess, 
I  will  tell  you  I  know  nothing  more,  nothing  less, 
Than  I  here  have  set  forth.   For  I  never  have  met  him 
From  that  day  to  this,  or  I  should  have  beset  him 
With  questions,  I  think.   My  unique  perseverance 
Kept  me  haunting  the  river  for  his  reappearance, 
Armed  with  two  or  three  books  which  might  serve  as 

a  primer 

To  point  my  remarks,  for  I  am  no  skimmer, 
When  I  push  at  a  wheel  it  must  go  or  I'll  break  it, 


,  A  CRITICAL  FABLE  99 

Once  embarked  on  a  mission  I  never  forsake  it. 

Did  he  guess  my  intention  and  think  he'd  enough 

Of  me  and  my  poets,  a  sufficient  rebuff; 

But  I  Ve  never  believed  he  went  off  in  a  huff. 

Did  I  dream  him  perhaps?  Was  he  only  a  bluff 

Of  the  past  making  sport  with  my  brain?   But  that's 

stuff! 

Take  it  what  way  you  like,  if  he  were  a  spectre 
Then  the  ghosts  of  old  poets  have  received  a  correcter 
Account  than  they  had  of  us,  and  may  elect  a 
Prize  winner  and  vote  over  post-prandial  nectar. 
Suppose  that,  before  awarding  the  prize, 
The  poets  had  determined  to  sift  truth  from  lies 
And  had  sent  an  ambassador  down  to  enquire 
Whose  flames  were  cut  tinsel  and  whose  were  real  fire. 
Selecting  a  man  once  employed  in  the  trade, 
They  had  only  to  wait  the  report  that  he  made 
And  discuss  it  at  al  fresco  lunch  in  the  shade 
Of  some  cloudy  and  laurel-embowered  arcade. 
Supposing  it  happened  that  their  emissary 
Determined  to  take  me  as  a  tutelary 
Genius  to  guide  him,  and  after  he'd  pumped  me 
Of  all  that  I  knew,  quite  naturally  dumped  me 
And  returned  whence  he  came.    You  call  this  bizarre? 
But  then,  after  all,  so  many  things  are! 
If  it  were  so,  at  least  the  conclave  knows  who's  who, 
And  will  see  there's  no  reason  at  all  to  pooh-pooh. 
I,  for  one,  am  most  eager  to  know  what  they'll  do. 
Aren't  you? 


